


As I Lay Beside The Fire

by notalone91



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), game of thrones
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Babies, Bedside Vigils, Body Worship, Brutality, CONVERSATION IS IMPORTANT, Declarations Of Love, Drinking & Talking, Drinking Games, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exposure, F/M, Family, Fear, Fingering, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Hot Springs, Hurt/Comfort, Letters, Lingerie, Long-Distance Relationship, Lost in the Woods, Loud Sex, Near Death Experiences, Nightmares, Oral Sex, PDA, Pain, Panic, Parenthood, Past Character Death, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Psychological Trauma, Rescue, Skinny Dipping, Strip Tease, THERE ARE SO MANY FEELINGS IN THESE NEXT CHAPTERS FAM, Talking, Teasing, True Love's Kiss, Unconsciousness, an offering to the god of tits and wine, arya is a good sister, pleasure as pain relief, sort of true love's kiss, stark sisters unite, unexpected reunion, voices of the dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-03-08 19:05:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 84,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18900775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalone91/pseuds/notalone91
Summary: Tyrion, I hope this letter finds My Lord Husband and Hand of the Queen well.  Months have passed, now, since the victory at Winterfell and your departure.  Of late, as the hours grow small, I find myself wandering the crypts and thinking of our union.   If it please, my lord, I should appreciate a visit from you so that perhaps, after all this time, we may discuss as equals what has passed and what is to come.  Whatever your decision, your arrival will be expected at any time.  Arrange it with Our Queen and make haste.  A letter need not return with this raven.  Only you.  Please come to me, Husband.  Yours, Sansa.---After the seven kingdoms find peace, Sansa and Tyrion look to each other and work together to find their own.(Title is a lyric from The Wolves and The Ravens by Rogue Valley.  Chapter titles are all lyrics from bury a friend by Billie Eilish.)





	1. what do you want from me?

**Author's Note:**

> Just a couple things-  
> 1.) I've never written Game of Thrones. Ever. So, bear with me.  
> 2.) I haven't written anything at all in a good solid minute.  
> 3.) I don't want to call this a canon fix because like... I started writing it around 8x04, before canon was wrapped up; when I started to see that the only way these two were getting a happy ending was if I did it myself. But, if you're particularly invested in the idea of the end's division of power/punishments and how Jaime and Cersei die, this may not be the fic for you.  
> 4.) Trying not to sound like Bill Hader's Stefon... This fic has major violence, PTSD, a suicide attempt, pregnancy... man, this feels like I'm describing a 2007 Drarry fic. I'm sorry. The way I'm planning on working the updates will be chapter by chapter because I know I'll forget something otherwise. So, as we go, the archive warnings and work rating will change as well as the tags updated to be accurate to the posted chapter. People always seem to be angry if I rate a fic explicit, knowing my plans, but it's not immediate PWP so, it's just gonna roll.
> 
> Okay, I'll shut up now. ENJOY!!

> I struggle. I juggle. I could just throw a line to you,  
>  But I should let sleeping dogs lie 'cause I know better, baby.  
>  I write it. Erase it. Repeat it.  
>  But what good will it do to reopen the wound?  
>  -Katy Perry, Save As Draft

      _My Dear Husband,_ the lady of Winterfell wrote, shook her head, then started her letter anew. She sliced the topmost piece of the parchment off and tossed it into the pile of scraps. The sun diligently made its retreat hours before, and she'd been attempting this letter for hours even then. Sansa dipped her quill into the well and closed her eyes. _Tyrion_ , she began, _I hope this letter finds My Lord Husband and Hand of the Queen well. Months have passed, now, since the victory at Winterfell and your departure. Of late, as the hours grow small, I find myself wandering the crypts and thinking of our union._ She paused, heart racing curiously. Was that what she wanted to say? When Tyrion spoke of it, he did say marriage. Union seemed so cold, but marriage seemed all too fond. She decided that, for lack of a better word, it would have to do. If it didn't, she might never get this damned letter finished. _If it please, my lord, I should appreciate a visit from you so that perhaps, after all this time, we may discuss as equals what has passed and what is to come._ Good, she coached herself. What now? What is your goal here, Sansa? _Whatever your decision, your arrival will be expected at any time. Arrange it with Our Queen and make haste. A letter need not return with this raven. Only you. Please come to me, Husband. Yours, Sansa._ She sat in front of the fireplace in her new bedchamber a moment more. Her mind wandered to another life, it seemed, and another woman who may have sat in that very spot in that very chamber and written to her husband, the Hand, asking for his return. She reread her words. That woman would never have struggled to find the words for her husband. That woman, she was sure, didn't feel a lump in her throat every time she imagined the face and word attached. But Sansa was not Lady Catelyn, and Tyrion Lannister was indeed not Ned Stark. She tied the parchment and went to bed. The letter was written. Now, all she had to do was decide whether or not she truly wanted to send it.

\-------

      The gates to Winterfell opened, allowing for Tyrion Lannister and his escorts to enter its walls. For all the damage that had been done, he couldn't help but notice that the repairs were coming along nicely. The North bore him no love lost, but even he could admit that its people certainly did what needed to be done. That was one trait he could say added comfort to his visits. He allowed himself only a brief moment to entertain the thought of building a life here before dismissing it completely. He was here to be asked for an annulment. He knew it.  
      The plan was to sneak into the back as Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, and Lord Bran held court. That way, the maester would still be nearby and witnesses for both parties available so that he would then be able to return to the new Queen's Landing as soon as possible. The plan, that is, until his horse no longer responded to his articulations. He leaned forward and whispered to the animal. "If you're going to kill me, Lord Stark, tell my wife that I would have appreciated her presence." The horse shook its head and came to a stop near the stable. Tyrion looked around and was pleasantly surprised to find Sansa sitting upon a hay bale. His smile, however, didn't reach his eyes. She didn't owe him any kindness, so he steeled himself for the blow.  
      Winter had nearly finished its first turn and showed no signs of spring. It's too fucking cold here anyway, he thought. He pulled his cloak tighter upon dismounting his horse. "My lady," he greeted, reaching a hand forward.  
      "My lord," she answered, offering hers to him. "I believe that is the standard response."  
      Tyrion's expression softened at her recollection. So sharp. He assessed her for a moment. She seemed to be at a loss, so he decided to, just this once, take the lead. "Shall we find someplace warm to do all of this discussing?" he asked, closing her hand in both of his.  
      With a nod in the direction of the house, Sansa led him into the kitchen. "When I was a girl, I'd come down here when Arya was being a pest." She smiled to herself as Tyrion pulled her chair out for her. "It's the warmest spot in Winterfell, save perhaps near to the forge." That was true. Tyrion even shrugged off his cloak. The pair sat in silence for a moment while they gathered their thoughts. Despite having the better part of a month to plan his parting words to the wife he'd never expected to be so reluctant to leave, he still couldn't find them. Sansa, however, had had many months to think this through. "What if," she started, more sure than ever that she was making the right decision. "What if you stayed here?" When Tyrion didn't answer, she continued. "You were right. Perhaps we should have stayed married. And technically, we did," her low voice dropped to just above a whisper, and she leaned in to him. "What if you came to Winterfell? I know it's not King's..." she corrected herself, "Queen's Landing, but I doubt that was ever home. It certainly wasn't to me. Except, nearly, with you." She straightened back in her chair. "At the very least, our public union could be mutually advantageous..."  
      "Mutually advantageous?" Tyrion repeated, finally finding words, and much to his surprise, they weren't as gentle as he'd always hoped for. "My Lady, do you know what you're asking of me?" He palmed at the table for a moment before continuing. "And as what, may I ask, would I be staying? Your ward? Your slave?"  
      Sansa was hurt by the accusation. "As my husband," she answered. "Why else would I have asked you to travel all the way to Winterfell, if not for that? If I'd wanted you for anything else, I could have sent men to fetch you. But I would never, Tyrion." He steeled his strong jaw, taken aback by the intimacy in her use of his name. She closed her eyes and shook her head, steadying her suddenly ragged breath. "Even this far to the North, we hear stories of what the plans of Our Queen hold for Her Hand. There's one thing in the way of you being married off to some Lady of the Court again." Her face grew cold again. "Me."  
      Rubbing the bridge of his nose with his right hand, Tyrion asked Sansa the one question he was afraid to hear the answer to. "What do you want from me?"  
      Moving from her chair and kneeling in front of her husband, black skirts spread out along her legs, she rested upon her heels. "Nothing," she stated. "Just be you. Here." Sansa placed her right hand atop Tyrion's left. "You are intelligent. You're witty. You've never been anything but kind to me. Things between us are good. They're safe. We could be left to ourselves."  
      Tyrion sighed, looking around the kitchen once before settling on his wife's eyes, eyes he had seen so sad and so broken down, but never before so gentle and so trained on him with something so positively sure. "I was sure you brought me all the way up here to have our marriage annulled," he said, voice more breath than tone. He ran his thumb along the outside of her hand.  
      "You are my husband," she said, shaking her head. "I've seen what other men are like. I don't want anyone else." She realized how selfish it sounded but she couldn't bring herself to add that she didn't want to see him with anyone else, either. She didn't know much else but those two facts.  
      Unsure of what else he could have wanted, he supposed this was as close to the little tenderness he'd held the hope of and so readily dismissed. In the better part of the last decade, when he'd allowed himself the thought of a life with Sansa, he'd hoped for more than settling on convenience and protection. Still, it was better than nothing. "And if I agree? If I come to Winterfell?"  
      Offering little more than a shrug of her shoulders, Sansa felt her heartbeat quicken. Was that a yes? She thought for a moment of the possibilities she'd prepared for- her least favorite being the one where he walked out, never to be seen again- and the one she'd spent the least amount of time entertaining seemed to, of course, be the one playing out in front of her. "Time will tell," she said more meekly than she'd hoped.  
      "My Lady, are you sure?" Tyrion asked. She nodded wordlessly. "Then, I am yours," he said, moving their hands together off the table, kissing hers lightly, and helping her off the floor.  
      Finally, Sansa relaxed, easing up into her chair. "I believe, then, a feast is in order."  
      Sansa busied herself on the task at hand and Tyrion tried to piece together what had just happened. He found a spare length of parchment in his satchel and began writing a letter that would explain his pending absence to the Queen. He stared at Sansa who, at the moment, was readying a guest list and already discussing a menu with one of the cooks. She glanced back at him and smiled before turning back to the help. For that instant, she was the girl in the garden, helping him plot revenge on the bastards of Court who laughed at him. He'd move Heaven and Earth to stay in this moment. Easy. Comfortable. Normal. She deserved so much more than that, he thought. She deserved love and happiness, but this... This was more than he expected from the hand life had dealt him.  
      _Your Grace,_ he began, _As well you know, I have been called away by my Lady Wife on pressing business in Winterfell. At this point, my presence is required here indefinitely. In my stead, I ask that Your Grace seek counsel in Lord Snow. Please excuse this inconvenience, my Queen,_ he grimaced, fearing momentarily that his letter would appear impertinent, but what was he if not impertinent? _Seeing as I have been removed from My Lady's presence for some time now, attention must be paid to our house._ "Are we to invite the Queen for the festivities, My Lady?" Tyrion asked, pausing for a moment and gauging her response for her truest answer.  
      "I think, at this point, Sansa is the name you're looking for," she said gently. "Of course, we should invite the Queen. And Jon. Though perhaps not jointly," she mused.  
      He shook his head a little. _If you have the time, Your Grace, and this letter finds you with haste, on the start of the next moon, we shall have a feast here at Winterfell announcing our union. Lady Sansa will be sending a more formal invitation, but I wanted to extend one as well. We would be only too happy for Winterfell to see your return._ We. He marveled at how easily he seemed to use the word. Such heft, those two letters carried. We. Us. My Wife and I. The Lady and Lord of Winterfell. _Again, I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. I can only hope for your understanding. I remain, faithfully- Yours, Tyrion Lannister._ He tied off the scroll and excused himself to see it off.  
"So, this is home, then," Tyrion mused, staring up at the crisp wintry sky. He thought back to the first time he saw Winterfell some ten years earlier. How the times had changed.


	2. why don't you run from me

> Wonderin' if I could sneak out the back, nobody's even lookin' me in my eyes.  
> Then you take my hand, finish my drink, say, "Shall we dance?"  
>       -I Don't Care, Ed Sheeran with Justin Bieber

      The eve of the feast was upon them, and Winterfell was bustling with activity. Sumptuous dishes formed in the kitchens. Candles, florals, and linens in rich reds and glittering golds for Tyrion Lannister and silky greys and snowy whites for Sansa Stark made their way into the great hall.   
      Of late, there weren't many people either Tyrion or Sansa could think of that they'd wish to invite to their festivities. The losses of the war ran deep.   
      For Sansa, most notably, the absence of her parents, her brothers, and the ladies of House Tyrell would leave gaps. Lady Margaery and Lady Olenna had been so kind to her when she so desperately needed them. She supposed that their voices would have to be enough. She'd have to imagine Margaery's dirty jokes about her husband. There was no way that she'd ever believe that, even still, there had been no bed shared between them. More than anyone else, her friendship would be the most calming for any anxiety she had for the life ahead of her and provide guidance. She could almost feel Theon's hug, hear Robb's not-so-veiled threats, and see Rickon following Tyrion around, pestering him with all of the precocious questions their older brothers could feed him. Her parents, on the other hand, were harder. Her mother's voice was not as clear. It was more faint than a whisper. She couldn't tell if it was soothing the fourteen-year-old child in her or chiding the twenty-four-year-old woman for needing support. Her memory couldn't invent an expression for her father's face that relayed the information she'd want from him. He'd never been fond of any of the Lannisters, and rightfully so, but she couldn't recall whether or not he'd spoken ill of her husband specifically. She could only hope that his kindness and loyalty to her would be enough to please an honorable man.   
      Tyrion had no one he wished to invite that was not already in Winterfell or there moreso at the request of Lady Sansa, it seemed. The queen had declined, as expected, sending her blessing with Jon. Jon, obviously, as an esteemed colleague and, dare he say, friend, but he was the brother of his wife, after all, and not his guest to invite, wouldn't have missed this feast for all the world. Still, that was not a replacement for the brother he'd so recently lost. There was little love lost for his family, save his innocent niece and nephew and their father. That had been the deepest blow for him. Not a day went by that he didn't miss him. Having been absent from their wedding, having Jaime at this celebratory feast would have meant the world to him. It certainly didn't help that a seemingly permanently tear-streaked Ser Brienne had made Winterfell her home, in service to the Stark women. In the weeks since his arrival, she avoided Tyrion at all costs. Admittedly, he was almost grateful. Brienne had never been particularly fond of Tyrion, and any chance that he may set her off would be in his best interest to avoid. Still, he wished he'd had someone to talk to about the sudden changes in his life.   
      There was so much he wished to talk through with someone and preferably without it getting back to Sansa. Not for deceptive reasons or even out of fear. Maybe a little bit of fear. When they had married, he made her a few promises and those promises he had still never broken. Truthfully, he knew that one of those was the specific reason for his standing in Winterfell today: his promise never to hurt her. None of the thoughts he had were particularly harmful, but he'd be damned if saying something particularly foolish now would be the reason he broke that trust.  
      But he wondered...  
      Standing in the looking glass, Tyrion took himself in. Thirty-four years old, freezing his cock off in the fucking North again, war-torn, and now returning to a loveless marriage. A marriage of tolerance. A marriage of convenience. And why? Why had Lady Sansa chosen him? Why had she waited until now? Did she truly care for him at all? Did any of that really matter? Surely, she had some reason. Perhaps they could discuss some of it before the feast. He began his trek for the great hall with the intent of finding his way to her first.  
      Sansa sat at her dressing table smoothing down her hair, glad that any trace of the heinous black was gone, and steeling herself for the night's festivities. She surveyed her dress, particularly proud of her design. She had made it herself- her first in ages- and she had impressed even herself with it. The bulk of the dress was a heavy steel grey, but it dropped into a long red train with small, intricate white wolves and gold lions embroidered into the brocade. She'd never seen herself in red and had quite a difficult time getting such a large amount of red fabric this far North. She had initially chided herself on the extravagance of it all. Now that it was all finished, she was glad to have done it. Her belly flipped and flopped as she imagined herself mingling with the crowd. In all of these images, Tyrion stayed by her side. She wasn't sure if that would be the case. They hadn't actually discussed how tonight would go or how they would answer more delicate questions. Were they going to pretend to be head over heels in love with each other? Should she go by Lady Lannister now? How would his inheritance of Casterly Rock interfere with her being the Lady of Winterfell? And what if the question of children came up? There was time, of course, for all of that to be decided between them, but people would want answers. People would talk. Not that she really minded gossip, and she knew that Tyrion didn't much mind, but nevertheless the peace was new and people didn't need a reason to lose faith in new leaders.   
      She moved for the door, meaning to pay Tyrion a visit so that they might plan some of it, but she was interrupted. Bells sounded in the distance signaling the start of the feast. She sighed. So much for that.   
      Tyrion reached the door of Sansa's bedchamber just in time for her to open it. He had "Oh," she said with a start. "My Lord, I was just on my way pay you a visit." Smiling fondly, she reached her hand for his.  
      It could wait. _It could all wait_ , Tyrion decided. For tonight, he suddenly wanted nothing more than to enjoy the feast by Lady Sansa's side. Their wedding, lo those many years ago, had been a tormented affair that he barely remembered past the ceremony. He was not going to make the same mistake this time. There were none of the same tormentors. No expectations. It wasn't a wedding, after all. It was just a feast. "My Lady, you look..." he searched for the words for a moment, settling on "ravishing." He knew he wouldn't be able to take his eyes off of her, that's for sure. No one would. This was so much more the Sansa he remembered than the severe wardrobe of the Lady of Winterfell. No, he would not hurt her with his own insecurity. Not tonight. Not ever.   
      "Shall we?" she asked, not releasing his hand. They walked a little in silence before Sansa tugged him into an empty room. "I had a few things I wanted to discuss," Sansa said, grateful for the courtyard's torchlight filling the room just enough that she could still feel obscured. "There are things that the people will ask that I would like to know how you wish to respond," she said.  
      "For instance?" Sansa poured her list out fast, worrying that someone may come looking for them soon. Tyrion sighed. She did have concerns, at least that much they could agree on. However, they both had bright minds for policy and appearances. She may not have been as skilled a liar as he, but she could still save face with the best of them. He had expected to follow her lead. "You know your people, My Lady-"  
      She interrupted him. "Sansa. Tyrion, I think at this point we can both agree that the formalities needn't remain now, in any case."   
      Taken aback, he continued, " _Sansa_ , you know your people better than anyone. You know who they need you to be. I presume you wouldn't have sent for me unless you believed it served. You tell me and I will follow."  
      Sansa paused a moment. "Are you still heir to Casterly Rock?"  
      "No," he answered. "That title belongs to Ser Bronn."  
      "The sellsword?"   
      Tyrion chuckled. "Indeed. And our new Master of Coin. Not that the man has ever held a coin for more than an hour or two. An exchange for the life of myself and my brother. I made him a promise out of self-preservation and hadn't expected the price tag to be a title. That was my only bargaining chip. The land, that is. The Queen bade the title."  
      "I'm sorry," she said, eyes finally meeting his.   
      "I'm not," he answered plainly. "There's nothing for me there anymore." _Not like what I could have here. Even if it is only playing pretend. Even if you never want me. Even if I have to sleep down the hall forever._   
      A voice carried from the corridor. "Sansa! Where are you?"  
      "That'll be Arya," she nodded. "I suppose it is time."  
      Tyrion hesitated for a breath. He wished for the power to stop time. He didn't want to move if it meant not looking at her. "I suppose it is." He couldn't bring himself to be the first to turn away.  
      "Then, we should make haste," she opened the door and led him down to the great hall.   
      The feast had begun and the room was full of people Tyrion didn't recognize. Sansa and Arya entered the Hall and immediately greeted an assortment of guests. For a time, he allowed himself to watch his wife work the crowd, remembering the way Margaery Tyrell had done much the same. He silently thanked the poor departed Queen's memory, knowing what high regard Sansa had held her in. She was a true ruler and Sansa was much the same. Rejoining the present, he searched for one friendly face. "So, I guess this leaves me to be the one to make the threats." No such luck.   
Tyrion blanched, and turned to face the speaker, fearful he may meet his end. It would be appropriate... given the way wedding type feasts worked in his family and his wife's. Seeing a hand outreached, thankfully not bearing a weapon, he looked up to find Jon. He grasped the man's wrist tightly as the guest did the same. "Welcome home, Jon."  
      "How are you finding the North," he asked, gesturing to Sansa with his chin.  
      "Warmer than previously expected," he shrugged, guiding him out of the doorway to continue their conversation in a more civilized location- one that involved wine for both of them.  
      Jon placed a hand on Tyrion's shoulder, looking him dead in the eye, "Understand this," he squeezed his shoulder tighter for emphasis. "You hurt my sister, you will be the first prisoner sent to the Wall under the reign of Queen Daenerys. It's lonely out there under the best of circumstances," he warned, eyes narrowing, "and yours, I guarantee, would not rank in the top 99 percent." When Jon believed his brother-in-law thoroughly concerned, he smiled, clapping him on the shoulder. "Daenerys' threat lives a touch closer to home for you," he gestured low on Tyrion's body with his goblet. "However, she sends her regards, and best wishes for your continued happiness."  
Tyrion considered his words for a moment, deciding to speak in confidence to his friend, hoping he wasn't still speaking as a big brother. "In order for happiness to continue, you have to be sure it's there in the first place."  
      "She wouldn't have asked for you if it wasn't there," he assured.   
      Sansa had begun to look around the room. She touched Arya's elbow, about to ask her husband's location when her little sister gave a rather undignified shout. "Jon!" The younger girl took off at a run and wrapped her arms around his neck.   
      The Lady of Winterfell followed at a quickened pace and did much the same. "I've missed you," she said, smiling, before clumsily searching for Tyrion's hand. Jon shot him a look that delivered a wordless _See?_  
      Sansa was ever the perfect hostess. They greeted each and every guest at the door together, much to Tyrion's exhaustion. She gave a perfectly timed speech on togetherness. Tyrion listened to his wife with rapt attention. She truly was a leader. She commemorated the lost, praised the living, and bolstered the future. "A long time ago," she seemed to muse, "my sister told me a story of our father. As you all know, we were both taken to King's Landing ten years ago." She turned to her left, looking at Arya at the other end of the long head table between Jon and Gendry. "Suffice it to say that things weren't what we expected." She placed her hand gently on Tyrion's shoulder. "And of many things, Arya was rightfully wary. But my father... He told her 'When the cold winds blow the lone wolf dies and the pack survives.' He was right." She turned to Tyrion, who placed his hand atop hers. "Our pack had divided, but in those trying times, the one person who did was by my side with no ulterior motives was my husband, Tyrion. He became my pack," She smiled, turning back to the partygoers. "So, I ask you all, people of the North, to accept him and to welcome him." She reached for her goblet and raised it. "To Tyrion."  
      "To Tyrion," the room chorused. Jon caught his eye and nodded.  
      Tyrion bowed his head graciously. In all his years, he would never have expected that. He reached for Sansa's hand and kissed it gently.   
      The room boomed back into activity as the desserts were brought out. Tyrion's mind was louder than the crowd and the musicians combined. For the first time in his life, he had no idea what he was up against. Anxiety consumed him. He knew he had told Sansa he would go along with her. Still, this wasn't what he'd expected. How could he have? In truth, he was half expecting some sick joke or to be murdered. Sansa surely wasn't that cruel, but never in his life had his presence been so warmly greeted and that fact alone gave him pause. Where was the proverbial other shoe? Just as he was about to excuse himself, Sansa turned to Tyrion and suggested that they mingle for a short while. He found himself incapable of saying no.   
      The people asked exactly what she'd expected them to. The couple worked their way through the crowd. Most of the discussions were easy and cordial. The question of children didn't come up until near to the end. "Someday, Lady Evylenne," she'd answered the wife of one of her most loyal bannermen, "Gods willing."   
      Tyrion mustered a dutiful smirk. A diplomatic response that left them free of immediate responsibility and room to work it out themselves. Not too in depth, but Lady Evylenne could deign from it what she would. Sansa truly had it all under control. So what does she need me for?  
      "Where is your Ser Brienne this eve?" asked some nameless lord or other.  
      Sansa smiled, dutifully. "At home, resting."  
      "Not avoiding her in-laws?" the man joked. Tyrion's heart thrummed. _I wish my brother were here._   
      "No, My Lord. Everything is still so fresh, she thought it best not to leave home."  
      The lord's wife nodded sympathetically. "Do send her our best."  
      "Of course, My Lady," Sansa said, bowing her head.  
      Feasting ended and the people of Winterfell began to return home, leaving their Lord and Lady the castle. Sansa and Tyrion walked back through the halls slowly and in comfortable silence. When they reached his chamber, he bid her goodnight and turned for the door. "Tyrion," she called. "Wait. Don't you think, mayhaps, we should retire to the same room?" When he said nothing, staring at the floor, she continued. "It would not be the first time we'd done so, and I..."  
      "Why?"  
      "I'm sorry?"  
      Tyrion leaned back against the door and studied Sansa. "Why? Why me? After everything that has happened, My Lady, why is it still me? You could have any husband you'd like now. You should be putting as much distance between you and the monsters of your past as you can," he sighed. "I am one such monster. Why aren't you running?" He hung his head. "What could you possibly gain?"  
      "I needn't gain anything," she said. "Don't you think that I'm well aware that I have options? I'm no longer a caged little bird. I meant what I said this evening about you being there for me. What more could I really ask for?" She sighed and folded her arms, mirroring him across the hall. Sansa no longer entertained any childish ideations of love, and she knew she didn't love Tyrion. She couldn't afford to love anyone. Could it be that he still loved another? "Is there another you love?" she asked gently.  
      He stared at her, mouth hanging agape. "My Lady, I have been entirely faithful in our marriage. I have not strayed. I have not had another in the eight years you have been mine and I yours."  
      Sansa suddenly found herself feeling guilty. That hadn't been the case for her. Not exactly, anyway. She knew that her situation hadn't been ideal. She knew that she hadn't had a choice in any of it. Did he? Sansa imagined someone telling him that she'd been married again but not giving him any other information and her heart ached. Even though she knew he'd been told now, that initial shock... "Tyrion, I-"  
      Realizing what he'd implied, Tyrion interrupted her. "I didn't mean to accuse. I was simply..." he trailed off for a moment. What was he doing? "I just can't seem to reason it out. Is this merely out of some perception of duty?"  
      "No," she said. "It's selfish... but I've been feeling some pressure of late to marry. I don't want to take my chances knowing that I have as good a husband as I could ask for."  
      "I'm not a good man," he said.  
      She shook her head. "I didn't say that. I know what you've done. Just as you know what I have. I'm not good. I'm not pure."   
      He crossed the dimly lit hallway. "My Lady, your actions had just cause."  
      "Please," she closed her eyes, willing the welling tears not to fall, "just consider what I've asked. You needn't answer tonight. Sleep on it," she prompted, moving away from him swiftly so he wouldn't see the emotion. She didn't need to feel as though she was manipulating him.   
      Sansa's footsteps faded as she turned the corner. In the distance, he heard a door open and shut. Tyrion retreated into his chambers and sat on the foot of the bed. _You fool,_ he chided himself. _You blithering idiot.  What are you waiting for?_   He hopped off the bed and began gathering his nightly essentials. He'd come back for the rest in the morning, but for now...  
      He raced down the hall and knocked at the door to Sansa's room. "My Lady," he called gently. No response. "Sansa, if you can hear, I just wondered if, perhaps..." he opened the door a little, "May I enter?"  
      "You needn't have asked." Sansa sat on the edge of the bed in exactly the same position he'd been in. "What's mine is yours, isn't it?"  
      "Is it?"   
      She watched him pace the room. "Of course." Tyrion finally stopped, one hand on the footboard, facing her. His expression was unreadable, even to Sansa. "I don't know what..."  
      "Sansa, I need you to know that I remember every promise I've ever made to you. Not only do I remember, but I intend to keep them." A different bedchamber, a different city, a different time. "I will never hurt you. I will not share your bed until you are sure that you want me to, even if you never want me to."  
      "That," Sansa said, focusing solely on him, "is why I want to stay married to you." She smiled a little. "There is only one bed in here, however, it is as big as three. I think there is plenty of room to share while still maintaining your word."   
      He exhaled sharply, "As you wish." _I certainly couldn't have wished this_ , he thought, as he readied himself for bed silently.   
      Sansa's heart raced as she made her nightly preparations. She carefully positioned herself behind the dressing screen, hoping it obscured her enough. Ordinarily, she wouldn't have cared. Ordinarily, she didn't have a flock of butterflies in her belly. Once she had her dressing gown on, she crossed the room and snuffed the light. "Goodnight, Tyrion," she said, climbing into bed.  
      "Goodnight, Sansa," he replied, making sure to stay as far to his edge of the bed as possible. He didn't know whether to curse the Gods or thank them.


	3. what are you wondering?

> You don't need to need me. It's better that you don't.  
> If each of us can walk away, it won't matter that I won't.  
> It won't be self-contained, but together, not alone.  
> You can keep me in the dark. Hell, it's all I've ever known.  
> But we both could use a friend who will always check the phone & take the call.  
> You don't need to need me.  
> At all.  
>  \- You Don't Need To Love Me, If/Then

      The days that followed passed with ease. Sansa and Tyrion began adjusting to what marriage looked like for them. They began to look forward to their quiet evenings together. One particularly comfortable night, Sansa had stated sleepily, "Being alone is easier when there's someone else there." From where Tyrion sat by the window, reading one of Winterfell's history books on the North, he glanced at Sansa, curled up in bed and wordlessly agreed. It was such an innocent statement. Sometimes Tyrion would swear that the girl whose innocence had been stripped away so many times over still lived in her. He decided right then that it would be his duty, even if they never came to love one another, that he would try every day to bring some joy back to her. He readied himself for bed and climbed in, careful not to disturb Sansa.  
      The next morning, Tyrion couldn't find Sansa until late afternoon. Surprisingly, when he did find her, she was in a place he had looked at least four times prior- their chamber. He sat beside her at the sill. "Something is troubling you," he said. It wasn't a question really.   
      "No," she said, trying her best to sound light.  
      He appraised her. "Sansa," he started, wanting to add, _You're still a terrible liar_. Instead, he simply offered, "you can talk to me. You do know that, don't you?" He wanted so badly to offer her some comfort. She was sitting so near that he could have wrapped an arm around her, or at the very least reached for her hand, but he didn't want to push. Things that seemed casual and harmless to him may not be to her. He decided to put his hand closer to her, letting her choose to bridge the gap.  
      She noticed his small gesture. Of course, she did. How could she not? She placed her hand in his. "I do." She gazed tenderly into his eyes for a moment, before staring back out the window. Even still, she did not move her hand.  
      They had been sharing a bed now for a fortnight and somehow this was the closest they'd been in all that time. She was right. The bed was indeed big enough that they could each have had another guest with them and the other pair would likely have been none the wiser. They may have been living together, but they were still worlds apart. Tyrion's resolve faltered. If she didn't want to share her troubles with him, he would not push. The woman may have been ice and steel, but somewhere inside was still a heart of porcelain. He changed the subject. "Have you eaten yet today?"  
      Sansa didn't answer right away, blushing a little as she realized she hadn't. That wasn't like her. She retraced her day, sure she'd taken some food somewhere. "I think not," she confessed.   
      "I'll fetch us some supper, then," he said. How women forgot, or more often _refused_ , to eat was beyond him, but Sansa had not been the first he'd heard of to do so. He slid from the sill and headed for the door. As he reached it, he paused. "Are you sure there's nothing you want to discuss?" he tried one more time, before making his descent to the kitchens.  
      If this was to continue, they needed to know one another. They knew small stories. They'd heard whispers. Sansa knew this. She'd spent the better part of her day musing on why things still felt so delicate. She had to open up to him, and he to her. "A great many things, but I don't know where to start." Tyrion leaned against the door frame, as though preparing for a blow. "I have so many questions for you but I'm afraid."   
      He drummed his fingers on the dark wood. "I have an idea," he mused. He wasn't entirely sure why he hadn't thought of it before. It was his truest failsafe for opening up discussions that needed to happen. "A game of sorts."  
      "A game?" she asked suspiciously.  
      "It can be," he answered, smiling to himself. "But, we will need wine. So first, you must eat."   
      "Wine?"  
      Sufficiently proud of himself, he nodded once. "Wine. And yes," he said, looking at her and proving his attention to details, "this is a time when you have to."  
      Sansa watched her husband leave. Her pulse quickened momentarily, then calmed. He'd be back soon, she coached herself. He'd be back and then they'd have to talk and, _oh Gods, did they have to talk._ There would be no turning back from here. But what sort of game did he have in mind that would get them talking and require wine? Her mind wandered, but she decided, instead, to busy herself on letting her hair down from its braids rather than dwelling. That didn't take long enough, she mused, so she began clearing some space for them to eat. She was sure that Tyrion would get flustered and indecisive, leading to much more than they needed for a dinner for two, so they would need to spread out. The night had gotten colder, leading her over by the fire. She stripped the furs from the bed and spread them out, then added some pillows and cushions, hoping to make it more cozy. She stood back for a moment. Was there something she was missing from their little picnic? _Just a partner._   
     Sansa wanted so desperately to make him understand; to not lose his patience with her. She devised a plan, swearing to herself to let her guard down with Tyrion no matter what. She trusted him, after all, and if they were to remain man and wife, she needed their relationship to be just that.  
      After some time, Tyrion returned with a small army to help him carry up their makeshift feast. He wasn't sure what Sansa would want or could eat if she was suffering from a nervous stomach, so when the cook had suggested that he take some of everything, he hadn't objected. The help left their wares nearby and vanished, as quick as they'd come.   
      The pair ate together, making light small talk about their day. Tyrion detailed his search for a _maiden fair_. Sansa blushed. She didn't think anyone would notice her absence. She'd held court early this morning, and spent most of her day in the Godswood, thinking. When the sun began to retreat, she headed back for the castle and first took a lap of the grounds before retiring.   
      When their water goblets had been drained again and their hunger sated, Tyrion revealed the flagons of wine he'd hidden away and filled their cups.   
"I suppose you should start, so I know what I'm up against," Sansa suggested.  
      Tyrion laid to his side and propped himself up on his elbow. A playful smirk crossed his face. "Alright. The rules are simple. I'll make a statement. If I'm right, you drink."  
      The Lady shook her head, knowing how highly he thought of his skills of perception. "And if you're wrong?"  
      "You tell me to drink. Simple enough?"  
      She laughed a little, "I think I can manage it."  
      "So," he said, focusing on her eyes, not aware of how his gaze suddenly made her tingle all over. His thoughtful silence was deafening. Sansa held her breath, stiffening. "You've never been married." And he took an exaggerated gulp of his wine.  
      Finally, she exhaled, rolling her eyes. "Tyrion, you have to at least try," she whined. "That's not an assumption, you just wanted to drink."   
      "Okay, okay. Fine," he wiped his mouth, happy to have diffused the tension, "you're glad to be Lady of Winterfell."  
      "Drink."  
      "You're not?" he asked, obliging in another sip and refilling his goblet.   
      "It should be my mother," she said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.  
      He was taken aback by how readily she was open with him. "Fair enough," he said, beginning to realize that this game was never just lighthearted fun.  
      Sansa took some time on her first one. She wanted it to be a barometer for how he was handling the changes over the last few weeks. "You're glad to be Lord of Winterfell as opposed to Hand of the Queen."  
      "I am still Hand, Sansa," he corrected.  
      She hadn't thought about that. "Okay, you're glad to be both, but enjoying your time here more."  
      He cocked his head to the side a little, as though considering the intricacies of her sentence, then drank. Was he glad to be Hand? He wasn't sure anymore. "You remember what you said as you were falling asleep last night."  
      She blinked twice, "Drink." Shit, her mind hissed. That hadn't been a dream. At least it gave her some ammunition for finding out what Tyrion really felt. But how to phrase it. He frowned a little as he refilled his glass again while hers went untouched. Now, wanting to seem more determined, he sat straight up, legs crossed, fingers laced around his cup. Finally, Sansa was ready for her next statement. "You want me to remember what I said as I was falling asleep last night, but won't tell me for fear that I don't mean it."  
      He drank, not breaking eye contact with her. Clearly, this was a dangerous game to play with two highly perceptive people. "You were lying about remembering what you said as you were falling asleep last night because you don't mean it," he said, his mouth betraying his brain, which cried out that that was far too accusatory.  
      "Drink," she said, almost offended, and he obliged. She felt a pressure in her chest and furrowed her eyebrows. "You're afraid of me."  
      His expression softened. "Sansa, no..." Her hand moved for her goblet, but he reached to obstruct her. "And don't drink, either. Where would you get that idea?"  
      She shrugged. She knew her reputation. Sansa Stark, Ice Queen in the North. Fed her husband to the dogs. Refused to bend the knee to the Targaryen girl. Killer of King Joffrey. People talked. She couldn't help but listen. Granted, Tyrion knew the truth of all of that, to some extent, but Sansa couldn't help but wonder how much of that reputation seeped into his perception of her. Of course, she knew what she'd said the night before. And he hadn't responded. And then, again, he kept himself as far from her as possible. There were a million reasons she could give him, but she decided on something clean. Something concise. "Your hesitance," she said, finally. He stared at her, a touch confused. "It took you almost an entire month to be in the same room as me at night when we'd done so so many times before. It seems almost like you don't trust me."  
      Tyrion shook his head. "I don't trust myself."   
      Suddenly, it hit her. _And what if I never want you to_. Her fifteen-year-old self's stupid, naive voice echoed in her head. He was only keeping true to his word. "I trust you," she offered lamely.  
      "You shouldn't," he said. His sad eyes stared down at the furs. If he looked at her, the dam might break and he'd end up saying something he couldn't take back.  
Sansa moved herself closer to him. "You've never given me a reason not to. You made a point to reiterate your promises to me." She stared at him, mind crying out for him to look at her and to see her. "You'd never do anything I didn't tell you I was amenable to. I'm not a maiden anymore, but I know that that's not particularly of interest to you," she said, blushing as though she were. He finally looked up in time for her to ask, "So why?"  
      He took a breath and steadied himself, turning his body fully to face the woman before him. "I am, first and foremost, a selfish man. You should know that, Sansa." Her eyes relayed a desire to protest, but he continued before she had the chance. "Could it be that it hurts me? That all these years I wasn't able to protect you?" He closed his eyes, unable to bear it should her gaze turn to one of pity. He struggled to phrase this correctly, wine muddling his thoughts. Sansa repositioned herself to lie on her stomach, propping her face on her hands to watch him. "That I want you to want me but I don't believe that I'm worthy of your desire." He stared at the ceiling and steadied himself, before returning his focus to his wife. "There have been times, these many years, that I have been close to death for one reason or another. Each time, my thoughts have gone to you," he leaned in and brushed a stray lock of hair from in front of her face. His hand lingered on the side of her face before he pulled it away. Her cheek mourned the loss of his touch. "What would you think? So often I would find myself, even unprompted, wanting just to see you. To hear your voice. We had so little time together and you rightfully had so much contempt for me. It wasn't until that night in the crypt that I even allowed myself to entertain the idea that you could ever care for me."  
      "That doesn't sound selfish to me," she said, turning over to look at him. He looked at her questioningly. She still hadn't had any wine. Where did her sudden lack of inhibitions come from? Sansa inched closer, leaving mere centimeters between her head and his thigh. Instinctively, he reached down and gently lifted her head to his lap and then dropped his hands to the floor, supporting the bulk of his weight on them so that he wouldn't be tempted to reach out and touch her. Sansa softened, hoping that her subtle leap of faith wasn't going unnoticed. "I've cared for you all along, I think. I've always regretted leaving the way that I did." Her nimble fingers toyed with the extra fabric of his trousers at the knee.  
      "Why? You were little more than a child," Tyrion assured her. "I've never once held it against you. You needed to be out of King's Landing; Out of reach of my family."   
      Sansa wrapped her arm around Tyrion's and rested her hand atop his, lacing their fingers together. "But I was your wife," she said, as though that really meant anything. She focused on their hands, unable to look him in the eye. "My flight made you look irrefutably guilty. I could have gotten you killed."  
      Tyrion balked at her self-accusation. He teased his free hand through her flowing auburn hair. "But your staying mightn't have done anything. In fact, it might have gotten you killed. You left, and we both survived." He paused, leaning a little and tilting her head so she had little choice but to look at him. "Sansa, that part is over."   
      She wished to embrace him. To kiss him. To hold him as close as he would let her. But Sansa lacked the words to tell him that. So, she allowed a few minutes to pass in comfortable silence as they both mused over their thoughts. Two people so accustomed to losing themselves in thought would never have a productive conversation. Absently, she granted herself permission to let her hands wander. Nothing inappropriate, of course. Just the little intimacies she'd long since forgotten how strongly she desired.  
      As soon as Sansa closed her eyes, Tyrion's tongue began to grow thick and heavy in his mouth. His wife was truly breathtaking. He marveled in her calm face, the gentle smile on the lips he had never kissed, the way her body seemed to go on for miles; a stark contrast to how abruptly his stopped. The small strokes she was making across his arms and back stirred something in him that he hadn't felt in some time. And that scared the hell out of him. "Shall we keep playing?" he asked, gently, hoping she wasn't ready for sleep. He so desperately feared that the night's end would close the door on this openness and intimacy.   
      "Let's," she answered brightly. Sansa was certainly not ready to stop talking yet.  
      Allowing himself to relax, Tyrion smiled. "Whose turn was it?"  
      "Yours."  
      He took a deep breath, readying some topics. "Okay. Do you want to keep the deep, scary conversation going, or do you need a break for something lighthearted?" The question that had plagued him since the feast formed a statement in his mind, but he could also assume that her favorite flower was the orchid if she preferred.  
      They hadn't come this far to back down. Sansa looked up at him, reaching a hand tentatively for his cheek, whiskers bristling her fingers. She smiled. The beard made him look so northern. "I'd like to keep talking, if you would. I think it's important."  
      "You don't want children," he said, almost too quickly.  
      She pondered the thought. "Can there be a half drink?" When his face expressed confusion, "Or can both drink if it is both right and wrong?"  
      He smiled a half smile at her compromise. "Both is acceptable," She sat up with a groan, searching for her long since abandoned goblet. "Why both?" he asked, cup pressed to his lips as he watched her drink, wishing feebly for her to come back so near to him.  
      Sansa fidgeted with the stem of her cup. "I've always wanted children. I've always wanted my own pack to fill these walls. But now..." She looked around at the room her parents once shared. Sansa felt her cheeks flush with shame. Families were more common than not, after all. "And I know what is expected of me. Of us," she corrected. She was more than aware that she would not be alone in this, but it did seem that the bulk of responsibility would fall on her. She could only hope that her feelings would, then, carry as much weight. "Now, it fills me with dread."   
      "What does?" He feared her answer, but still, he needed to know.  
      "All of it," she answered, a little sharper than she'd meant to. "The bigger your family, the more there is to lose." Tyrion agreed, he supposed, but he'd always wanted children, though he always presumed that he would never be in that position. But, Sansa had other concerns. Thoughts of screams and pain and blood worse than battle flickered to her mind. She knew that was part of her design, to endure, but she'd already been through so much pain. Sansa doubted she could take much more. Her most recent experience had been less than comforting. "I was there with Ser Brienne when she brought our niece into the world. It was the least-"  
      Tyrion's eyes bulged. "Our what?" Our niece, he'd have sworn she said. Ser Brienne had been with child? With Jaime's child?   
      "Our niece," Sansa nodded, smiling. "Surely you'd been told."  
      He shook his head. "No," he assured, eyes wet with tears. He wasn't alone. He had family in this world after all. And no one had told him.   
      "Well, I assure you, seeing someone as strong as Ser Brienne scream in agony... and that was an uneventful birth, the midwife said. Jaime was born healthy and Ser Brienne seems no worse the wear." Sansa looked a little ashamed, discussing such things, but she needed to fill time, allowing Tyrion to process. When he seemed to have come back to her, she continued. "Still, one hears stories of the birthing bed and... the horrors it holds."  
      "As well I've been reminded," Tyrion said flatly, staring into his wine.  
      His words landed much like a strike. She'd forgotten. "Tyrion, I didn't mean-" what could she say?   
      Her stammer gave him a moment to interrupt. "No, no. I was simply stating." Of course, she meant him no harm. She was referencing the broad range of complications that occur. And he'd never disclosed his mother's fate to her, though he was sure she had learned it somewhere or other. And he had never really disclosed at length the way he was treated, though she had seen a fair bit of it firsthand. "The prospect of your children being like me mustn't be a comforting one either," he said, voice hardly above a whisper.  
      If his previous comment had been a strike, that was a slap. It stung as though meant to offend. "That's not part of it at all," she maneuvered herself to him, sliding across the furs effortlessly, so they were face to face. When he opened his mouth to protest, she reached for him, cupping his face in her hands so that he had no option but to look at her. "No, it's not. I know that I'd love our children no matter what. But," she waited, making sure he was still listening before allowing her hands to fall to his knees, "I also know how cruel the world can be and if something were to happen to them, I would die. The image of my mother watching my brother and his wife and their unborn child torn from the world has never left me. I'm not strong enough to endure that."  
      Tyrion struggled to believe it. Could she truly mean that? He meant not to minimize her pain, but external struggles were something he could help. Her hesitance wasn't with him. It wasn't childbirth, illnesses or deformities or, Gods forbid, her death. It was a fear he had a chance to ease. Things he could possibly protect her from. "You have seen horrors. Greater horrors than even I can imagine. Still, the world is at peace now," he granted himself permission to hope; hope that perhaps she was being honest. He couldn't detect a trace of a lie, and she seemed so hurt that he would think that of her. Taking her hands in his, he raised to his knees and never once breaking eye contact. "I can't promise that it will stay like that forever, but what I can promise is that I will do everything in my power to keep you and any child that you may or may not someday choose to grace us with safe and happy." His heart hammered in his throat as he stared at her, all grace and softness and power and beauty and... "I love you, Sansa," the words escaped him, shocking them both, but as soon as he'd said them, he couldn't possibly regret them. So long they'd lived silently on his tongue but that was not their place. The words belonged with her. They belonged to her. Her mouth hung open a little and before she could say anything, he had to continue; before he lost his nerve. "I do. And not just because you're my wife. Not out of duty. Not as a prize. Not as a beautiful young woman. I love you because you're you. Since we've been married, there has not been another. There hasn't been the thought of another. And you don't have to love me. I know that I'm a difficult man to love. But, getting that letter from you... I was so sure you wanted to be free of me. I'm still not sure that this is real. And I don't mean that as to say that I don't trust you. I do. More than I've ever trusted anyone, I think. And I am not worthy of whatever this is. If you could love me." He knelt before her for another moment, mind still reeling from the sudden outburst, then sat back.   
      A stunned silence fell over them.  
      Sansa had watched his frenzied declaration in mild disbelief. _He loves me?_ She asked herself a thousand times if she'd heard him correctly. Her pulse raced. Her stomach fluttered. Was it the wine or did he really mean it? He seemed to. "You don't believe you're worthy of love?" He reached for his goblet and drained it back. "That wasn't part of the game."  
      "And neither was the drink."  
      She reached for his hands again, lacing his fingers between her own once more. "I don't know that I can love anyone."  
      "You can," he assured. _Just not me. Say it. End my suffering._  
      She was silent for a long time. Her mind flew between images of her previous notions of love. Love wasn't the doe-eyed girl's idea. It wasn't her fairystories. Love wasn't Cersei's panic-inducing threats. It wasn't Ramsay's force. Love was her mother standing by her father, but also standing up to him. It was Sam watching Gilly with wonder, and Gilly being all too aware of the way she drove him mad. It was the way Brienne had cried when Jaime left to kill the Queen, and how she screamed his name when he was brought back with the dead. It was how much she knew it pained Jaime to leave. Love was Arya and Gendry's sneaking around as though no one knew. Love was Jon and Daenerys abstaining out of duty and honor and effort for a greater good, but not knowing how long they'd hold out. It was the way her heart felt right now, even if she couldn't bring her mouth to say it. Love was Tyrion. Kind, brilliant, funny, honest, charming, gentle, brave, honorable, wonderful, _right-in-front-of-her-face-all-this-time-and-hers-for-the-taking_ Tyrion.   
      "If I could, it could only be you, I think," Sansa said, finally, after what felt like years. It wasn't what she wanted to say, but she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to.  
Tyrion sighed, relaxing for the first time since she moved away from him. "I can live with that," he confessed. It was workable, if nothing else. It was close.  
But it wasn't enough. Not for Sansa. Not after everything he'd just said to her. "Tyrion," she asked, before actually formulating her plan. "Can I try something without getting your hopes up?"   
      "I'm not a particularly hopeful man. What harm-"  
      Before either of them were fully aware of what was happening, Sansa had brought her lips crashing against his. One hand found his waist, pulling him closer to her. The other snaked its way into his hair. She closed her eyes and kissed him as deeply as she could. She felt him melt into the kiss as the shock wore off, wrapping her tightly in his arms. Suddenly, she was astutely aware of her inexperience. She didn't know what else to do- how much further to go before she did something she wasn't ready for. Luckily for her, her stunned husband was more than willing to guide her. He parted his lips slightly and, ever the quick study, she did the same. She sucked his bottom lip between hers instinctively. She felt herself warm all over and pulled back. That was it. "I love you," she said, voice all breath. And there it was. _I love you._ Easy. Safe. She'd never said the words before and certainly never to someone who'd just said them to her.   
      "Sansa-" he said tentatively, pulling back and staring at her.  
      She laughed a little, finding her confidence. The newfound meaning in the words was more intoxicating than any wine. She said it and it felt _right_. "I love you." She couldn't help herself from smiling, even though he was pulling back.  
      Tyrion's eyes darkened a little. She couldn't _possibly_ be so cruel. She'd just had so much hesitation. "Please... don't," he whispered, fearing his heart might break.  
      This third time, there was no laugh, no breath, just a pure, honest "I love you."  
      "You're mocking me and I'm going to bed," he stood up, wobbly from wine and kissing and sitting too long, and then circled the room.  
      Sansa was shocked. "I'm not," she yelped. _Oh, Gods, he's leaving!_ Fear gathered in her chest as she tried to discern just where she'd gone wrong. _And what if I never want you to._ There it was again. _Oh._  
    He shook his head in disbelief. "You are." _I should have known. How could I let myself believe she'd ever..._ No matter what she'd said, his insecurities were as deeply rooted as her fears and he had years of cold indifference to back him up.  
      "Tyrion, I'm not. I _swear_ I'm not," she caught his hands and straightened up on her knees, giving him no choice but to look at her face. Her hands shook. _What have I done?_  
      Tyrion studied her carefully. She had been totally honest with him all night, so what cause did she have to lie with no intent but to wound. That was not Sansa. Her expression did not read jest or malice. _If he was to believe just her face..._ "You're not, are you." He brushed her disheveled hair from her face. She was still so afraid.  
      "I'm not," tears welled in her eyes. Sansa had so many emotions, but right now, in his realization that she was telling the truth, in his acceptance, the only thing she could truly feel was relief. She grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and hugged him. "Tyrion, I love you," she said, this time sure he would hear it and accept it. "And it terrifies me."  
      "Why?" In his experience, love was always something to fear, but he had his reasons. He knew she had hers, too, but he needed to hear what they were.  
      "Because there will come a point when you'll have to leave. And I could lose you again."  
      "Again?"  
      Sansa took a deep breath, finally steadying herself to break the embrace. She raised off her knees and sat on the hope chest at the foot of the bed. Beckoning for Tyrion to sit beside her, she held his hand again not wanting to be without it, realizing just how much she truly enjoyed it. "I think I've loved you for ages now. Admitting it to myself was more recent, but watching you leave Winterfell with Danerys and Jon... It took nearly every fiber of my being not to scream and beg for you to come back to me. And I'm not a woman who begs. Not anymore." She felt the same tug on her insides just thinking about watching him leave.   
      "I would have," he assured, touching her cheek with his free hand and resting their heads together. "Sansa, I wanted to from the moment the gates closed."  
      "When we received word of the Iron Fleet's assault, I was distraught. No one knew of your fate. No one understood." She recalled the way that her advisors, even Brienne, had looked at her every time she asked after him. She must have seemed crazed. "When my allegiance to Daenerys had been so tenuous and Jon's safety was confirmed, there was 'nothing more for me to be concerned with.' But I was terrified. The idea of a peaceful new world didn't matter if you weren't in it. I could put up a brave face as long as there was a chance." She paused. At that point, there was no way for her to know that they would ever get their chance. "Losing you would have broken me, maybe more than even losing Arya, Bran, or Jon. I've lost family. I've lost people I love. But not this type of love." She still marveled at the way the world felt new and foreign. She wanted to say it over and over again. "You have. I know you have. Are you the same man you were before Shae? Before Tysha?"  
      Tyrion froze at the mention of those names. Of course, she knew of them, but he hadn't expected to hear her use their names so casually. Shae had been her friend and handmaiden. He'd never mentioned... that had to be Cersei's handiwork. He bristled at the ancient history, but still answered her question. "No. But to be fair, I was hardly a man then. I was just sixteen." That seemed to be new information, so he continued briefly, "And my first love was hardly a something from a song." Someday, they'd get into all of that... Someday.  
      "But it changed you," she affirmed.  
      "Yes."  
      "And I think that if you had died, some part of me would have too. Especially if you'd never known that I love you." The mere suggestion pained them both.   
      None of that mattered anymore.   
      A content Tyrion finally spoke, "Now, here we are."  
      "Here we are," she repeated. Sansa couldn't shake the feeling that a weight had been lifted. She felt light. Dare she say happy? She wanted to scream from the rooftops, but all the same, she didn't dare move.  
      "And I think we should get some sleep," he said, gesturing to the bed with his chin.  
      "Probably," she agreed reluctantly. Standing up and beginning to remove her layers. Tyrion's face turned pale then pink then red. He couldn't make his nightly preparations with her visible and in full light. She was gorgeous and perfect and loved him. As much as it changed everything, it changed nothing, and he wouldn't... but by all the seven he wanted to. He caught a glimpse of an angry red scar that wrapped her shoulder and felt his blood boil. He turned away, retreating behind her dressing screen. "You needn't turn away. I don't mind," she said.   
      Unsure of which emotion held the biggest threat, and not wanting to pry or ever make her feel uncomfortable, he denied. "I think I should, all the same."  
      All the while, Sansa smiled. She hadn't smiled this much since she was a girl. She replaced the furs to the bed. Finally, he came out from behind the screen, expecting her to already be in bed, but instead, saw her standing at her dressing table in her small clothes, still in full view. He slid into bed and reminded himself for the thousandth time to calm down. She finally began to douse the lights and climbed into bed. She frowned at the distance between them. "Tyrion, could you..." he turned his attention to her, but didn't dare move. She blushed a little, knowing that she had to be vocal about what she wanted. _I could, but I won't._ That was their agreement, wasn't it? _Not until you want me to._ That had always been it, hadn't it? _Not until you want me to_. His voice on their wedding night was all too clear in her head. She started her request over. "Tyrion... Will you hold me?"  
      Tyrion smiled to himself. If he woke up tomorrow morning and this was all a dream, it would be entirely worth it just for that. For a woman who had been so much to trust him to hold her as she slept. "It would be my pleasure." He brought his arm around her shoulders trailing his fingers over her delicate skin and she leaned into him, resting her head on his chest and reaching one more time for his free hand, this time a little more territorially.   
      Sansa brought their coupled hands nearer to her face. She focused intently on the gentle thrum of his heart, feeling hers slow to match his, and stared at their hands. There was nothing amazing about it, but gods she was amazed. Feeling her eyes grow heavy, she said "I love you" one more time for the night, adding with a yawn- "Even if you are terrible at your own game."  
      Pressing a chaste kiss to the top of her head, he merely answered "I love you, too. Sweet dreams." He was sure that that would be the case. For both of them.


	4. what do you know?

> Wide-eyed with a heart made full of fright  
> Your eyes follow like tracers in the night  
> And the tightrope that you wander everytime  
> You have been weighed, you have been found wanting  
>  -The Wolf, Mumford And Sons

        As the sun rose the following morning, Sansa eased herself from the bed, careful not to wake her sleeping husband, and began to ready herself for the day. She dressed in a simple black dress with a daring neckline, by northern standards, and plaited the top half of her hair up in an intricate bun. She crossed to the armoire and pulled out an ensemble for Tyrion. She laid it out on her dressing screen. _Your husband's appearance will reflect more on you than it will on him,_ came a honeyed voice from somewhere deep in her memory. She noticed a small hole near the ankle of his trousers and set about the repair, nimble fingers stitching it shut in no time, humming a far off melody she'd heard a long time ago.   
        She started a fire in the hearth and sat by it, warming herself and picking up her small black diary. She used it mostly to keep account of her days because Sam had asked for historical purposed. Should anything happen, it's much better to have the firsthand accounts and go from there. After about a month, it became more personal to her. There were to-do lists, memories from her childhood, important thoughts, and of course her obligatory account of the day. Today's entries, she thought, were going to be important to her. The prior night's game with Tyrion had been enlightening, to say the least. She wrote all of the things they'd confessed to one another, her fears, her emotions, and how she couldn't remember a winter's night making her flesh burn, but so innocently. When she'd finished her morning entries, she moved onto her next task. _Keep yourself busy, Sansa. I know your mind wanders to such grim places if your hands grow idle,_ came the voice again. She'd been trying to come up with a combined Stark Lannister sigil, but nothing sufficed, most of them turning into some strange manticore type creature. She began her sketching again.  
        Tyrion began to stir to life in the bed, frowning in the realization that he was alone. "Sansa," he called out. _He had dreamt it!_  
        "Here, my love," she replied. _You'll have private names that are just to be behind closed doors. Always, My Lord, in court, but your husband is whomever the two of you become once you're out of the eyes of the people._ Sansa mulled the endearment over in her mind. She sounded too much like Margaery when she said it and her heart ached for her friend. Mentally, she scratched that off of her private names list. "How did you sleep?"  
        Her words caught him off guard. "I think I'm still dreaming," he laughed, voice gruff and deep.  
        "My mother always said a pinch could test that," she said, placing her sketch pad down and moving to sit next to him on the bed obliging with a playful pinch to his ribs.  
        The half-sleeping man feigned offense with an exaggerated "Yeouch!" clutching his side in pretend agony.  
        "Guess you're not dreaming then," she said, leaning across her husband in the hopes that he would notice her boldness.  
        He'd have had to be more than half-sleeping not to notice. Probably more than half-dead, even. He did his best not to stare, but he would have sworn she was teasing him. Could their talking last night have awakened a hunger in the she-wolf? Sansa pressed a chaste kiss to his lips and stood up again. "No, not dreaming," he agreed.  
        "Good. Shall I meet you in the kitchen for breakfast?" she asked, despite that having been their daily routine up until then.  
        He appraised her for a moment. "Unless you're ready for Winterfell to see you exit your bedchamber with your husband," he offered, testing the waters.  
        She smiled, "Only if you are ready for the same."  
        "I have a husband?" he asked, still not leaving the warmth of the bed. "Oh, I do hope he's as handsome as that Knight of the Flowers."  
        Sansa blushed, crossing her arms, and laughing at her fleeting childhood fancy. "Would you prefer that? I'm sure we can find you someone suitable," she chided. "We have any number of eligible men here who would be only too happy to oblige." She tried so hard to keep a straight face, but he had opened this door, after all. _Oh, you'd swear an oath to a roast boar if it meant you could do the honors, Ned._ Suddenly, it dawned on her. The voice she'd been remembering all morning was her mother. She thought on her mother's harmless swipes at her father and readied her own. "Though blond curls are in short supply in the North. Perhaps a mirror fixed to his face would work?" She pulled thickest fur cloak from the rack to compensate for the lack of coverage provided by her dress.  
        "Horrible woman," he laughed. "You have a wicked bite." If it were possible, Tyrion felt himself fall even farther for this playful, open Sansa.  
        "Proven to get worse if starved," she conceded, sitting in the chair by her dressing table. "Are you going to get dressed or are we going to break our fast past noon?"  
        Tyrion paused briefly, almost asking her to avert her eyes, before sliding out of bed and looking directly at the dressing screen. He pointed at them, then to himself, looking at Sansa for approval. "Thank you, my lady," he said, before retreating behind the screen himself. He changed from his nightclothes to his daily dress quickly and without objection, eager not to keep Sansa waiting.  
        "You know, I believe you can dress freely," she said flippantly. "And I don't mind if you see me dress. There will come a point..." she trailed off.   
        He stuck his head from behind the screen. "That hesitance is why I shall respect your modesty." He retreated, finishing up the laces on his trousers and slipping on the tunic she'd chosen. "Where, may I ask is this coming from?"  
        Sansa hadn't really thought about it. Something had gotten into her, and it wasn't just the conversation the previous night. "I guess something has come together in my mind. My mother used to tell me that, as a wife, comfort with your husband makes things easier. Did you know that my father spared my mother a bedding ceremony just as you did me?"  
        Tyrion thought back to a conversation with Lady Catelyn, before they'd even been betrothed, about just such a thing, but he wouldn't deny Sansa the memory. "Did he?" he asked. Secretly, he was glad now that he had gotten to spend as much time with his insipient mother-in-law when he did. So much of the woman Sansa had become was as though spoken with her mother's tongue. He wouldn't pretend to have known her well, but there was no denying the claims of the people who did.  
        "Apparently, he said that it wouldn't do to break a man's jaw on his wedding night. Perhaps not as memorable as 'You'll be fucking your own bride with a wooden cock,'" she added, imitating his deliberate, low speech, "but very much him."  
        He covered his eyes briefly. "Did I really say that?"   
        "You really did," Sansa said, voice thick with her attempts to hide her laughter. Sansa lost herself for a moment. "I think, in another life, you'd definitely have liked them. They probably would have liked you, eventually, as well." _Sansa, marriage is fun, but it's work. There are good days and there are bad days. The point is, you find someone who makes the work fun and the bad days soften. Your father is not an easy man, sometimes. But I can't imagine doing this with anyone else._ "I miss them," she said. "So much."  
Finally, Tyrion appeared from behind the divider. He didn't know what to say. I'm sorry wouldn't suffice and he didn't have much experience in that type of emotion to draw from. He simply kissed her forehead and wrapped her in his arms. That was all he had at the moment. And that was all she needed in that moment.

        In the coming days, Sansa grew more and more used to the people from her past coming to visit her memories. She'd surmised that it was just her way of healing, now that some time had past and she was beginning to feel more secure in herself. She was beginning to trust her judgment as the Lady of Winterfell. She handled her advisors as strongly as she ever had. She even stopped feeling like she was talking to a fortress wall when addressing her siblings.   
        Sansa and Tyrion met with Arya, Bran, and the Maester on a morning later in the week. "How much longer will the wheat hold out?" They always saved the food discussion for last. It seemed to be what caused Sansa the most stress, and it was easier to break right after before holding court in the afternoon.   
"We have enough for six turns, My Lady," Winterfell's new council, Maester Ayn, answered. Sansa sighed. Not bad, but certainly less than she was comfortable with. "But the trade shipment should be here in less than five."  
        _Winter is coming._ Her father's constant reminders of her house words rang in her ears. Well, Winter is here, Father, and what do I do to ensure that my people don't starve?  "Need we ration to make sure? The nights will only grow colder and the panicked drop to more meager meals in four turns will be much more noticeable than a gradual one now."   
        "That doesn't seem necessary, My Lady."  
        Sansa wasn't one to back down where her people were concerned. "Humor me, Maester Ayn. See what can be done to stretch us for one more turn," she said levelly. "This winter's depth is yet unknown." Tyrion simply watched from beside her.  
        "By us mortals, at least," Arya groaned, dropping her feet from the meeting table.  
        "Enough, Arya," Sansa coached.  
        Raising from her chair, the younger Stark woman whined, "Do you need me for court today?"  
        Sansa eyed her sister sadly. "No, Arya. I'd like you to be there, but if you must..." _Be patient with your sister. She'll calm in time._  
        "Thank you," she said, bounding across the room and down the hall.  
        Bran spoke from her left. "Father was wrong. She's still wild."   
        Having grown used to her little brother's intrusions, she simply leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, considering the meeting adjourned. "At least one of us is." Bran nodded at the Maester and the meeting chamber was left with only the Lady of Winterfell and her husband.  
        Covering her face with her hands, Sansa asked, "Maester Ayn did say that we're only to hear a half dozen today, correct?" She was in no mood, today. A snowstorm was said to be headed for them in the few nights and with repairs still unfinished, parts of Winterfell were still extremely vulnerable.   
        "Thankfully, yes," he answered, running his left hand in circles over her back. When they were alone, Tyrion seemed unable to keep himself away from his wife. The small intimacies were more than enough for the time being. He felt like a boy again, hopelessly in love for the first time. In some part, he was. Any love he'd ever felt was not this, and Sansa was, in no way shape or form, like any woman he'd ever loved.  
        With a sigh, she nodded. "Wonderful. Hopefully, none of them involve carriage of justice and we can have a moment to ourselves." _The one who delivers the sentence must be the one who wields the sword._ Ned Stark had never prepared her for that. Justice, like hunting and battle, was for the boys. She'd never had much interest in it as a girl, anyway, but as a woman, she'd wished she'd had some of her father's insight. She knew it would only be a matter of time before she'd have to wield the sword and the thought of it brought her nothing but dread.  The North loved had loved her father.  Would they be able to look at her the same way, all things considered? She shook her head with a groan, feeling a knot develop in her shoulder.  She rested her head atop her husband's and closed her eyes. "I'd love to visit the hot springs soon, also."  
        Tyrion's attention had been piqued. "Hot springs?"  
        "That is a part of how we heat the castle," she said. She explained a bit, but the mechanics were truly above her mathematical prowess. She'd always marveled at the ingenuity of some of the ways Winterfell worked.  
        "Interesting. Is there a blueprint for that?" Tyrion asked. He'd have loved to see how they managed to get water from nearly three-quarters of a league flat to Winterfell.  
        "I'm afraid most of our documents were lost during the battle," she said sadly.  
        "That is a shame. Perhaps we could start working through the lost blueprints together?" he suggested.  
        A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "I would like that."   
  
        The couple decided to skip lunch in favor of privacy until that afternoon's court session. The first five parties were easy enough, two thefts, a public brawl, a widow on hard times, and an orphan who was too young to understand that he couldn't go and take the black because there was no wall. The last man was much more difficult. He was a well-off man and a drunk who'd come for no reason but to take his frustrations out on those better off than he. Truthfully, this was the part of Court she hated most. Many of the Lords expected to be dealing with Bran, at first, and when word spread that she'd inherited Winterfell, they'd expected to be able to manipulate her and that she would bow and kowtow. She grew weary of their ilk faster than any other.  
        "It's a good thing you've got yourself a husband, even if he's only half a man. When does he get to rule, Your Grace? Surely, I'd be able to strike a bargain with him," the man slurred.   
        Tyrion hadn't experienced this type in court before, save perhaps Bronn, and even he knew better. He balled his hands into fists and slid forward on his chair, ready to pounce. Instead, Sansa covered his left hand with her right, calmly.  
        "Some time ago, My Lord, I learned not to take the jibes of angry men to heart," she said, tensing her hand over his to still him, urging him to let her handle this.  
        "Because you ain't got one," he spat.  
        She took a deep breath, expression unchanging. "I have a great many other things, My Lord." _Tears aren't a woman's only weapon, little dove. The best one's between your legs. Learn how to use it._ She dismissed the former queen's voice from her head. Another Lannister watched on, mind swirling. "I've found that a brain is much more important in seats of power. Have you forgotten yours?" She accused flatly. When the man's eyes widened, and he silently shook his head, she prompted, sweetly, "Then, I suggest that you turn around and leave this place. One of my men will follow you out." The man moved to comply and four of her armored guards fell in step behind. "But, My Lord," she called to him, as casually as if to remind him of a forgotten hat, "I do suggest that you keep a watchful eye still. They don't leave Winterfell," she gestured around her, but thought of Arya. "Others- women, especially women with particular skillsets carefully honed for survival- do. And they would be only too happy to take out some boredom on one who offended Her Lady, her beloved sister and brother-in-law, and her House."  
        Sansa raised her brow imperceptibly as the smallest of her guards gave an exaggerated, high pitched yawn from under her helmet. She willed herself not to smile. That was an act of revenge more satisfying than any sheep shift of their childhood.  
        "Safe travels, My Lord," she called.   
        Over his shoulder, in a huff, he called out "Thank you, Lady Lannister," and allowed the doors to slam shut behind him.   
Sansa blinked twice and squeezed her husband's hand, calling attention to the way it trembled, bile rising in her throat.  
        Tyrion, who'd taken in the entire scene, attention never wavering from his wife, took her cue. "My Lady, may I have a word?" he asked, rising as the maester read the dismissal protocols, escorting Sansa through a side door and into a private room across the hall.   
        Sansa's breath quickened and she leaned back against a wall, ghost white and sweating. "I don't know what came over me." Her whole body shook and she placed a hand to her chest. Her pulse rushed in her ears. Her vision swam.   
        "A wolf, My Lady," Tyrion suggested, finding a stool and insisting his wife sit. He offered his hands and stood dutifully in front of her.  
        "It felt more like a lion." Her stomach churned at the memory of Cersei's voice coming to her.   
        There was no denying that there was some of his sister's influence in Sansa's calculated ruling style, but there was not a malicious bone in her body. "Indeed. But Sansa-"  
Panic spilled out with her every breath as her words sped forth at a frantic pace. "I spent so much time at her side, Tyrion. She was training me to be her. Sadly, I fear she was doing what she thought was best. Giving me the tools to perhaps, one day, dampen Joffrey's rage." Sansa burst into tears for the first time in a long time. "I don't want to rule like her, Tyrion. I don't want that to be the image I set forth."  
        Tyrion wrapped her tightly in his arms, rocking her gently as she sobbed. "That would never happen. You are not my sister." He felt her breathing begin to calm and her grip on the back of his vest loosen. He pressed a kiss to her temple. "If you were, that would make me Jaime and this whole situation would be rather different."  
She swatted his shoulder gently. "Don't make jokes," she said. Still, Tyrion could swear he heard the hint of a laugh on her words.  
        "I'm not," he assured, pulling back a little and looking her squarely in the eyes. "Sansa, you were protecting yourself and your family. No one would think any less of you for putting the fear of the Gods in him."  
        "My father would never have made that threat," she sniffed and hung her head.  
        "Your father would never have been in that position." They both knew that to be the case and he didn't dare to mention why. Just because he believed that his wife was as capable a ruler as any Westeros had seen, possibly better given time, didn't mean that there weren't people who believed that her womanhood made her inadequate. "Do you have any intention of carrying through with that threat? Does Arya?"  
        "I didn't even know that Arya was coming. She asked to be excused, remember?"   
        "My sister would have known. She would have planned it," he said, rolling his eyes at his sister's petty acts of vengeance. He recalled a story he'd heard where she had her guards attack Petyr Baelish, drop him, turn around, and close their eyes, just as a demonstration of her power. "My dear, you're not Cersei. Do you hear me? You're not. You are Sansa Stark." Tyrion tilted her chin up, and rested her forehead against his, assuring she took in his words.   
        She reached her right hand up to cover his left, tapping his wedding ring twice. "Sansa Lannister," she smiled.   
        Tyrion melted a little at her gesture, kissing her very gently, still slightly afraid to push any of her boundaries. "I love you. And I love that, even if only in private, you would call yourself by my name. But you are Sansa Stark through and through."

        The impending blizzard turned out to be merely a dusting overnight, but certainly enough to cancel any courtly duties for the day. After their morning meal, Tyrion and Sansa headed straight for the hot springs, hand in hand.   
        "Are we nearly to these hot springs or shall we freeze to death out here in the Godswood?" Tyrion complained after a half hour of walking.   
        "Nearly there. Come along," she cooed. Sansa surveyed the walls of the mountain and finally found the opening, covered over by deep purple vines, just as she remembered. "In here," she said, tugging him along. As soon as they were through the natural curtain, the temperature raised dramatically. "Comfortable?" she asked, knowing the answer instantly.  
        The alcove was aglow from above as natural crystals formed the upper walls and ceiling. Clearly, the people of Winterfell frequented the springs often. There were fallen trees, fashioned into benches, rudimentary stone stools, even some candles had been left by previous parties.   
        Tyrion dropped his furs on a nearby stool and let the steam encase him. "That's good." The steam felt amazing on his tired muscles.  
        "I know," Sansa said, a mischievous grin on her face. "Allow me." She knelt before her husband and busied herself on the laces of his vest.  
        "My Lady..." he protested lamely, feigning shock.   
        She knew what he was doing. He needed to hear her say it.   
        _Lord Tyrion may surprise you._ She'd been thinking about Margaery a lot recently. No one else had ever had the same way of calming her nerves about the men she'd encountered. She was the most beautiful woman Sansa had ever seen and she had a way of wrapping everyone around her dainty little finger. She wished she could have had been able to learn so much more from her, but their time together was so little. It wasn't so much her words she needed now. She could only hope to keep her girlhood friend's control and coy confidence with her now.  
        "I want to see you," she said, not removing her hand from her husband's vest. "All of you.  And I want you to see me. Just to see, for now," she teased, looking down the top of her own dress with a wicked grin. "I don't know that I'm ready for... for much else, yet. But we could get there, gradually." When Tyrion said nothing, she almost lost her nerve, but something urged her on. "Would it make you more comfortable to help me first?" she suggested, voice low and sultry, as she pulled one hand from him and slowly teased it up to the clasp of her furs. She alternated tapping his chest and hers, demonstrating his choices.  
        He stayed silent for another breath and before his brain finally picked back up where it left off. "If you're sure..." he took his hand away and gave in to her wishes. She made quick work of his vest and top, willing herself not to run her fingers through the swirls of coarse hair on his chest and lower stomach, diving into his trousers. Saving that part for last, she undid his boots and slid them off. Sansa smiled, inching closer and setting upon her heels, undoing the tie at the top of the only remaining article, loosening them and letting them fall free. He stepped back and she surveyed him curiously. He was not the first man she'd ever seen naked but, _Gods_ , was he the only one she'd ever truly, honestly wanted to. Margaery was right, all those many years ago. He was handsome. She smiled, giving a small whirl of her finger to ask him to turn so that she might take him in entirely. "Now that you've seen, are you not repulsed?" he asked. He could tell by the hungry look in her eyes that she wasn't. He could hardly breathe.  
        "Not in the slightest," she said, smiling emphatically.  
        "Do I get the same honor?" Tyrion asked, reaching for her hand and helping her up. She nodded acquiescence and he started his own unwrapping. _And it's not even my nameday,_ he joked to himself. He looked her up and down before deciding to start in near the opposite of her work. Leaning forward, he started with her boots and... no stockings. Odd, he thought, standing up. He reached up for the clasp on her furs and they dropped to the floor. Something seemed off about her dress. It was fastened in the middle by a belt and clung to the curves of her breasts like skin. He undid the belt and the dress fell to the ground, leaving her completely naked. His mouth fell slightly open and his breath stilled in his chest. She was, in a word, breathtaking. Suddenly, he realized that she had been wearing practically nothing all this way and he had the gall to complain. "In this cold?" he asked, playfully.  
        "We weren't in the cold long, and the expression on your face was well worth it," she said, voice gentle but teasing.  
        "May I?" he asked, beginning to walk around her. "You are a work of art," he said, taking all of her in, desperate to touch and to kiss and to...  
        "I doubt that very much," she said, tugging the back of her hair down to cover her scars.  
        The look of wonder in his eyes never changed "Don't," he said.   
        After a few more moments of silent reverie, Sansa finally remembered the point of their whole trip. "Are we going to get in or are we just going to stare at one another?"  
Tyrion reached for her hand, guiding his Lady down the steps into the hot water. "Can we not do both?" They waded around for a short while, acclimating themselves to the temperature and each other. Finally, they sat on the carved steps at the edge of the pool, with Sansa on one of the much lower steps, lapping hot water onto her aching shoulders.  
        Sensing her need, Tyrion moved over a bit so that he was directly behind her. He gently swept her long, red hair over one shoulder and placed his strong hands on the nape of her neck and began kneading carefully. "Ohh, that feels nice," she sighed, leaning into his hands as they worked their way down to her shoulders. "You're good at that."  
If that was her response to a simple neck massage, he daren't think of the noises she'd make in other situations. "Thank you," he said, leaning down and kissing her exposed neck, not daring to suck, like he so desperately wanted to. "I have a great many talents that don't often get to see the light of day," he said, voice heavy.  
        "Like what?" she asked before the realization sunk in and she splashed him for his advance.   
        They talked and laughed for a while, enjoying each other's company before deciding they should head back. Even still, Sansa lay back on the topmost step, watching the waters ripple as she breathed, calm and content. Tyrion sat on the step below, his head resting against her hip.  
        Tyrion wanted to bottle this feeling. He'd never in his life spent the day with a completely naked woman in such intimacy and not bedded her. Even though he certainly wanted to. He could wait. She was worth the wait. Still, he shuddered to think of the walk back to Winterfell. "Can we move our chamber up here for the rest of the Winter?"  
        "I do believe we would be all the worse for leaving, then," she said.  
        "Then, we don't ever leave. We stay here until summer. Hide out like bears," he suggested, lurching forward with a growl and propping himself over her.  
        She laughed, leaned up, and kissed him. "Would that we could."  
        "Would that we could," he nodded in agreement.

        As Sansa sat alone in the library, her mind began to drift. It wasn't that the work she had in front of her was boring, but she certainly didn't consider herself much for road patterns. She knew something had to be done about the portion of the Kingsroad that ran through to Winterfell, but she couldn't figure out what.   
        She sighed, folding her arms over the book and placing her head down. Sansa closed her eyes and thought about how quickly everything seemed to fall into place with Tyrion. And yet...  
        Somewhere deep in a dark part of Sansa's memories, Lord Baelish lived on, as well. Mainly, though, it was only when her ambition was in question that she heard him. _It doesn't matter what we want. Once we get it... we want something else._ If that was in reference to my husband, she thought to herself, I'd advise against it. Still, she froze in her tracks when his voice visited her. She couldn't will him away. She had been a key player in his death, even if she had not delivered the blow. She had orchestrated it, just as he had orchestrated Joffrey's. She watched the light fade from his eyes as he had. Her name had been on his dying breath as his had been on her Aunt Lysa's. A chill chased her spine. Her mind spun. She did want something, but not something else- something more. She wanted her husband in as many meanings of the word as she could imagine. Still, she feared her own mind more. _Stop being a bystander, do you hear me?_ Sansa Stark was anything but a bystander. She gritted her teeth and set about not letting Lord Baelish back in.

        A few days later, Sansa convinced Tyrion to come with her and share their afternoon tea at Ser Brienne's. Tyrion still hadn't spoken to his sister-in-law or met his niece and Sansa hadn't had much time for social visits these past few weeks. Sansa knocked on the door to her small house just outside the walls of Winterfell. Sansa had offered, nay insisted, that she stay in Winterfell, but Brienne wanted peace, and the people of Winterfell staring at her with pity was not her idea of peace. "It's open!" she called from within.  
        "Brienne! How are you?" Sansa called, going to the rocking chair where Brienne sat and giving her a big, warm hug, and leaving her husband to stand in the doorway.  
        "I'm well," she said, giving the younger woman a tight squeeze.   
        Sansa smiled at her once sworn protector fondly. "And Jaime?"  
        Brienne gestured to the cradle she was rocking gently with her foot. "See for yourself."  
        "She is gorgeous," Sansa cooed, voice teeming with admiration. She reached in and stroked the baby's cheek before turning back to her mother, sitting at her side.  "Brienne, your brother-in-law didn't realize you had a child." She exchanged a knowing glance with her friend.  
        "The way he's been avoiding me since his return, I'm not surprised." If Tyrion wasn't going to come in and speak with them, they may as well speak as though he wasn't there.  
        Finally, realizing their indirect provocation, he moved out of the doorway and crossed to the women. "I was not avoiding. I was..." Brienne and Sansa both raised their eyes at him expectantly as he scrambled. He looked at the scene in front of them and folded, settling on "being impolite. Forgive me, good sister." He offered her a hand and smiled weakly at her, unsure of what to say. Brienne pulled him into a polite hug.  
        "Forgiven," she said. "She looks like him."  
        Tyrion took one look at the babe and was greeted instantly by the biggest green eyes. "She does." His eyes welled with tears. There was no denying she was Jaime's.   
        "Would either of you like to hold her?" Brienne asked, gingerly lifting her daughter the cradle. Tyrion's hands outstretched instinctively and little Jaime was passed to him. He brushed her cheek and he would swear she smiled at him. He crossed the room to a low settee and sat, completely enchanted. "I think she should know her Godparents."  
        "Her what?" Sansa and Tyrion asked in unison, eyes snapping to her.  
        "I trust no one the way I trust Sansa and Jaime would have wanted his brother." Sansa placed her hand over Brienne's gently.   
        The women began their tea, chatting happily about Winterfell, and the baby, and how things were going for everyone. Tyrion, however, had no idea they were there. His focus was entirely on Jaime. "Hello, sweetling. I'm your Uncle Tyrion," he said, voice low, as though sharing a secret. "Your father was my older brother. He always protected me." He offered a finger and the baby grasped it. "He would have moved Heaven and Earth to be here with you and your mother. But if you need anything, I'll be here at your side in a moment." He finally broke his trance and looked at the two women across the room. "Your mother is one of the strongest people I know, so you two don't need to be taken care of, but I promise you, I'll look out for you both. That lady over there talking to your mother?" He pointed with both of their hands. "She's my wife." The baby laughed brightly, and Tyrion smiled playfully at her. "I know. Your father would have said the same thing. That's your Aunt Sansa. But you know that, don't you? You're a smart one, aren't you?" He looked back to his wife and briefly made eye contact, before going back to his niece. "Maybe, one day, you'll have a little cousin to play with. Truthfully, I'd like it if you had a whole brood of cousins. A big pack. Would you like that, sweetling? I bet you would. The lot of you will cause all kinds of trouble here in the North. Someday." He held her close and bounced her a little. "I love you, little Jaime. You are perfect." She reached up at him, fingers grasping for his whiskers. "Look at these fingers. You know..."  
Sansa couldn't help herself from stealing glances at her handsome husband holding a baby with his eyes. She felt the fuse on her restraint growing very short.   
        "What do you think he's saying to her?" Brienne laughed.  
        Sansa smiled. "Who knows. Probably telling her stories of her father." She paused, before lowering her voice further and spoke confidentially. "You know, he and I talked about one day, maybe, having our own."  
        "And?" Brienne asked expectantly.  
        Sansa took a breath and focused on her friend. "And I'm talking to you and keeping very close eye contact because if I don't I will see him holding her and I will feel a wicked little tug at my heart again and make a decision I don't know if I'm ready for. We still haven't..."  
        "I didn't think I was ready for any of that and we certainly weren't trying for her," she assured.  
        "But, you're so good with her," Sansa said, "and you were so brave going through the whole thing alone."  
        Brienne nodded. Ser Brienne, the brave. That wasn't anything new. Bravery was never the issue. "Thank you. You have to learn quick. I won't say it has been easy, but she's perfect. And every time I think I'm doing something wrong..." she trailed off.  
        "What?"  
        "I hear Jaime," she confessed. "Nothing specific. Just encouraging me. Cooing over her. It seems his brother has the cooing down."   
        Sansa couldn't seem to knock the goofy grin off her face every time she looked at him. "He certainly does," she agreed. She felt something stir deep inside of her.  
        "So, why deny it?" Brienne gave her friend another moment to stare. "Sansa, he's not like the other one," she said.  
        Sansa looked down, ashamed. "I know, I know. But I still have nightmares..."  
        She considered her friend for a moment. "Have you told him?"  
        "Of course, we've talked about him a little, but he doesn't need to know all of the details." There wasn't much else she could think of that wouldn't just dredge up bad memories for her or hurt feelings for him. "He's in the past and can't hurt me now."   
        "Don't look now, but your Aunt Sansa is looking at us. You're getting to her, aren't you? You are, aren't you?" Tyrion stood up, suddenly aware that he'd definitely been hogging the baby.   
        "Here, my turn," Sansa said, reaching for Jaime. "Come sit with us," she said, gesturing to the empty chair with her head as she adjusted her hold on the baby.  
        "I'm sorry I didn't come to you sooner," he apologized, facing Brienne but still sidling up next to Sansa and Jaime.  
        "He was your brother. I don't blame you. I wouldn't have known what to say to you if you had. Probably just cried, truthfully. I did as much of that as she did until I got the hang of it," Brienne said, laughing at herself.  
        That didn't help. He should have come to her. "Still..."  
        "Tyrion, don't. What's done is done. You're here now." The three fell silent and all of their focus shifted to the happy baby in her aunt's arms. After a while, Brienne spoke again, finally able to verbalize some of her questions. "Did he... Did he have a relationship with his other children?"  
        "No. Cersei never even let him hold them." He reached for little Jaime's foot, tickling it to make her laugh again and let his hand rest on Sansa's leg, before continuing. "She didn't let anyone hold her firstborn, but I believe I spent more time with the younger two than Jaime did, at least early on. It nearly killed him, I think. He so wanted desperately to be a father." He turned back to Brienne. "Did he know?"  
        She pursed her lips and shook her head. "I didn't even know. When Jaime left for King's Landing, we'd had one beautiful month. By the time I found out, his body had already been brought back. Even if he had..." she sighed, looking at her daughter pensively, "I don't know if it would have stopped him. He was duty-bound to his mission."  
Sansa eyed her friend, sadly. "Arya would have done it. She swore Cersei was hers to kill. She chased him as hard as she could, you know?" Her sister still brooded every time someone mentioned that it had been someone else that killed Cersei Lannister.  
        "No, it had to be him," Tyrion said, knowing in his heart that it couldn't have been anyone else, no matter how much they wanted to.  
        "As much as it breaks my heart to say it, the world's the better for it. He helped the greater good. History will never be kind to him, but we can." She shrugged, having moved as close to acceptance as she thought she might get. "We know the truth. I miss him every day but I'm not alone. I have her now." She reached out and ran a finger along her daughter's cherubic little cheek and smiled at her sweetly.  
        The three chatted on for hours, catching up on each other's lives until the sun hanged low in the sky. They said their good-byes on their way to the door. "We'll see you soon. Bye-bye, sweetling," Sansa chirped, kissing mother then daughter on the cheek.  
        Brienne took Tyrion by the hand. "You won't avoid me any more, will you?" she asked gently, but with a fair bit of mockery that sounded so much like Jaime, it stung.  
        "What kind of family would that make us?" he responded, squeezing her hand tightly. "So-long, Brienne. Take care of my niece!"   
        Sansa and Tyrion made their way back to Winterfell hand-in-hand and full of warm, happy thoughts. Sansa couldn't get her mind off of the way Tyrion had spoken so softly to baby Jaime, his voice so gentle and clear.   
        Tyrion's thoughts were fairly singular. He found himself fixated on an image of Sansa, relaxing with her feet up, rounded out in the middle and a hand on her swollen belly and pulling his hand to her, showing him exactly where to press his hand to feel their unborn child kick. He hadn't realized how desperately he wanted it until he saw her holding baby Jaime. "I want one," he said, mouth moving much faster than his brain.   
        "I do, too," Sansa replied instinctively.   
        The couple stopped, staring at each other breathlessly, shocked how easily that was agreed upon when hardly a week earlier, the thought caused such a sticking point. The idea still scared Sansa some, but as long as Tyrion was beside her, they'd figure it out. She leaned down and kissed her husband. There were still steps to be made before she would be comfortable enough to lie with him, but Gods she would try her best to get there. 


	5. why aren't you scared of me?

> Come crashing in like a wildfire. I'm left in awe of you.  
>  Every time I close the door, I’m left wanting more of you.  
>  I wish I had some grand sense of occasion but I'll just smile and turn away.  
>  I hope you know by now I don't know another way.  
>  \- Rose of Sharon, Mumford and Sons

  
        Sansa sat at the table in her solar, finishing up the week's correspondence. She still had one more letter to write and she could finally retire. She would be but five minutes. As she started her reply to Grand Maester Tarly, a raven tapped at the window, a small scroll tied to its foot. She read the parchment and her blood ran cold.  
"Tyrion," she cried out, immediately moving for the door to her bedroom and, seeing that he was in bed, reading, she rushed to his side. "Are you hurt?" She brushed the curls from his face and caressed his cheek.  
        He stared at her blankly, trying to register what she was asking. "No," he answered, tentatively, patting himself down to check before checking her forehead for fever "Are you?"  
        "Hilarious," she said flatly, tossing the letter onto his chest and folding her arms. "Here, read this and see if your question still begets laughter."  
        Exhaling sharply, he began mumbling along as he read. " _My Lady, It is with deepest sympathy that I regret to inform you that your Lord Husband's days are numbered?_ " He looked at her questioningly, then turned back to the letter. " _There is no place for a Lion in the North. It is only by your birthright that we tolerate your presence as we do. Be rid of him, My Lady, or we will be forced to do it for you. Regards._ " He turned it over once, inspecting it for a sigil, then placed it in his book. "Rather unimaginative, really. I'm used to much more succinct or at least creative threats. The vague ones really don't have the same impact. They clearly haven't thought this through," he said, unimpressed.  
        Sansa crossed the bedroom and fetched her dressing gown from its hook. "Funny, funny man," she said as she rolled her eyes. She drew her dressing gown tight and looked back at him. "You're right about one, thing, though."  
        "What's that?"  
        "They did not think this through." With that, she stormed out of the room for who knows where.  
        He leaped from the bed and called after her. "Sansa? Where are you going?" He tried to keep up, but when she was on a mission, it was as though her legs moved three times as fast. "Sansa, the letter wasn't signed. You don't know who sent it. For all we know, it could be some bored children with their dead fathers' hatred of all things Lannister on their minds." He turned the corner and followed her into the next hallway.  
        "Arya?" she called out as she neared her sister's door.  
        "Sansa, stop," he said, grabbing her by the hand.  
        She pulled further down the hallway. "Arya, are you awake?" she cried out.  
        "Listen to me, please," he pleaded. "I am sure that whoever sent this has more than enough reason to be angry with me." He turned her back and began walking her back to their bedroom. "I may be a small man, but my shoulders are strong. I can bear their blame for whatever it is I've done. Heaven knows one more threat will not be my undoing." He sighed, never more glad to see their chamber door.  
        Sansa pursed her lips. Certainly, she didn't want to say all that she needed to say in the hallway. The privacy of their bedroom would be much more appropriate. Tyrion sat on the window sill and watched her as she paced. "Is a threat against a Lord not a crime, even if they haven't the means or desire to follow through? If the letter had come addressed to Queen's Landing and 'Your Grace Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and His Lordship Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen,' would she not have my brother hunt them to the ends of the world and let the garbage be incinerated by her dragons?" She crossed her arms and turned sharply to face him. "Why do you expect less than that from your wife?"  
        He looked up at her and considered her questions before giving his answer. "If that were a crime to spend a lifetime locked in a cell for, where would that put me?  Sometimes, Sansa, justice is understanding. The people of the North have every right not to trust me."  
        "I don't understand," she argued. "Why, Tyrion? You deserve their respect as much as I do. Perhaps even more. You are a good man."  
        He interjected, giving her the same dark glance he always did before trying to convince her that he was some sort of devil in disguise. "I am not a good man... the things I've done..."  
        "Are my hands not unclean?" she asked. She was trying- really trying- to get through to him. He was not the only one who'd done things they should be locked away for, but they were all doing what they could to survive in a different world. That was why they had been working so hard to build this one.  
        Tyrion clenched his jaw and pointed to his own chest accusingly, voice heavy and loud. "I killed my lover. Does that not frighten you?"  
        She stepped closer and squared off in front of him, mimicking his tone and actions. "And I killed my husband. You have more to fear than I do." The pair had never yelled at each other. They'd never fought. Somehow, that didn't seem to rattle either of them. This was a fight they needed to have. He needed to hear her and she him.  
        "My love..." he said, voice soft again. That was not what this was about, and she knew it.  
        "Stop," Sansa said, raising her hands and closing her eyes, centering herself. "Would that love of which you speak so softly be the case if you were not a good man?" She sat next to him and spoke again. "Would a dark soul have looked upon a King pointing a crossbow at his disrobed and beaten betrothed, threatened said King and his knights, saw to her modesty, helped her up, and offered to help her break that union? Would an evil man have left his scared little wife a virgin?"  
        His face lacked discernable expression as he listened to her speak. "Your experiences with me are not universal."  
        She recoiled a bit in disbelief, chewing at the side of her lip. "No? Would a horrible person have done his best to make sure his niece would be safe and happy in a world that offers no such luxury to little girls? Yes, I know you swore you did that to hurt Cersei but you loved Myrcella and Tommen dearly. You cannot lie to me and tell me that you would ever have done anything to harm a precious golden hair on their heads." She stood up and turned to face him again. "Speaking of your nieces, what about little Jaime? She's hardly been of this world four months and when you enter the room, she can't keep her eyes off you. And you speak so softly and gently to her, as if you're afraid she might break. Is that the way a monster treats a child? What about Bran?" She asked, pointing in the vague direction of his bedchamber. "That broken little boy would never have ridden a horse again if not for you. You did him a kindness that day. He wouldn't be the Three-Eyed Raven if not for you. You gave him his riding back which gave him the power to go fly. And Jaime? How many times did your intelligence and loyalty save that man? Shall I keep going?"  
        "He was my brother," he answered lamely.  
        "And for all else, he was Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, did he not deserve your allegiance? In the end?" She knelt in front of Tyrion. Sansa wished she were a mirror and that he could see in that mirror all the good she saw in him. "And how low must you then think of me, your wife, that I would love a wretched man after everything I've been through? That I would allow this horrible man, this waste of a life that you suppose you are, to lie beside me night after night? To hold me when nightmares mean to rob me of my sleep? That I would want this deplorable man to someday father my children?"  
        "Sansa-" he breathed, reaching out for her.  
        For the first time in weeks, she denied his hand, opting instead to fold hers in her lap. "Better yet, put the shoe on the other foot. Imagine it was me that they were threatening. Vague or no, you would show them just whose game they were really playing, wouldn't you?"  
        Tyrion didn't want to think about that. Even the suggestion filled him with dread. "You've made your point," he conceded.  
        She steeled her gaze on him. "Our actions, all of them- Yours, mine, Jon's, Arya's, Jaime's, Danerys'... Everyone's input brought us to a world at peace. I know your heart, Tyrion Lannister," she said, placing a hand on his chest and feeling his pulse beneath it, "and it is good." She stood up, shrugging off he dressing gown, and crossing to the bed. "Now, I would like to hear you take back what you said about my husband, My Lord."  
Tyrion followed suit, climbing back under the covers and placing his discarded book and the offending letter within on his nightstand. "My deepest apologies, My Lady. Surely, I meant your husband no disrespect."  
        "Good," she said, finally beginning to calm. She propped herself on her elbow, facing him. "You're too hard on yourself, you know that don't you?"  
        Tyrion turned to his side and pulled himself closer. He fixed his eyes on hers. "I don't know what I did to deserve you." He regarded her as though she was the greatest gift he could ever receive.  
        "Probably something extraordinary," Sansa said, rolling her eyes. "Saved an infant from certain death?" He shook his head and settled in on his back. "Rescued a kitten?" Again, no. She pulled herself closer and rested her hand on his chest again. "Healed a broken little dove?"  
        He balked at hearing her use his sister's pet name for her. "Sansa..."  
        Sansa kissed a spot on his chest just next to her hand, then left her head there. "Tyrion, I'm afraid for you. Perhaps... Perhaps you should go back to Queen's Landing for a time. Just until the dust settles." The mere suggestion falling from her lips wounded her, but what really mattered was that he was safe.  
        "That's not the answer either. The people will never trust me if I tuck tail and run at the slightest provocation," he said.  
        They lay in silence for what could have been an eternity. She had truly begun to find comfort in his heartbeat and the soothing rise and fall of his breathing. "Why is my word not enough for them?" she asked quietly.  
        "That I cannot answer."  
        Sansa gestured at the book where he'd stashed the letter. "I'm giving the letter to the guards first thing in the morning."  
        "And they will take care of it, my love, I assure you." He wrapped her in his arms, hoping to protect her from all that was wrong in this still too sinister world.  
        My love. _My love_. My _love_. The words hung over her like a shield. She couldn't believe the comfort the words brought her. Tyrion, on the other hand, was amazed by how easily the words came to him. It had been years since he'd spoken them to anyone. They hummed on his lips. He would sing them out on his every waking moment if he knew how much they eased her. Only, their ease could not keep the penman of that letter from carrying out their misdeeds. Though thoughts of their actions may not have bothered Tyrion much, they stole sleep from Sansa's grasp and he would not rest until she did. The pair lay silently, pressed tightly against each other.  
        The midnight hours were well upon them when a restless Sansa spoke again. "When did you know?"  
        "Know what?" he asked.  
        "That you love me," she said. She tilted her head to look him in the eye. He seemed to be lost in thought. "I need something less jarring to think of if I intend on sleeping tonight. Please?"  
        He caressed her cheek. "That is a difficult question. I cared for you from the day I first clapped eyes on you. You were so innocent and King's Landing was no place for that. I couldn't believe that you'd been brought to my insolent nephew. I knew I wanted to protect you." He pressed his cheek to the top of her head. "I knew I respected you soon after. On the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, you told me that you'd pray for my safe return, adding just as you prayed for the King's. Your tongue impressed me then just as it has this night." He smiled, thinking of how brave she had been then to speak with such ire. The passionate rage that had fuelled her tonight was born of that same quickness but, from where he sat, it was even more pleasing to be not exactly on the receiving end of it, but a party to it. "I suppose I knew I could love you the moment I'd heard you had left King's Landing. There was a sense of loss that I couldn't put my finger on. Love..." he trailed off. He'd never tried to retrace his steps. If it was too far back, he'd have felt guilty. But the years where it must truly have happened were spent apart. Truthfully, even in those dark moments where she had come to him most often, spending too much time exploring that had caused so much pain. Still, it seemed, in all his travels, Sansa had stayed by his side, at least in the comfort of his own head. "Love was different for me. You were so young. And I know that that didn't mean much to the court. Many maids younger than you had been made wives and mothers to men much older than myself, even now. But I think, and please don't take this the wrong way," Tyrion paused, silently begging her not to react or make him think too deeply about Mereen, "but I think I loved you- truly loved you- the first time I was beaten as a slave."  
        Sansa had been following his story until his last word. "As a what?" she asked. Tyrion Lannister, a slave? Certainly, she'd misheard. The alternative was too horrible. She recalled the way he'd suggested that as what she could have wanted when he'd finally come to her and felt a twinge in her chest. No, she'd heard right.  
        "You didn't know?" Tyrion asked. Surely everyone in the Seven Kingdoms had heard that the imp had been made a slave. People much have spent a fair bit of time calling it only fair. Whether that had happened or not, word had clearly not made it to Sansa, who appeared to have lost her words completely. He continued, "Ser Jorah Mormont captured me in chains to take me to Danerys as a way to worm himself back into her good graces. We, in turn, were captured by slavers. It was only a short while, I suppose, no more than a few weeks." This seemed little consolation to his wife. He knew he was supposed to be distracting her from the fears that consumed her with regard to his safety, but he couldn't lie. As many fairy stories as he wished to string for her, he couldn't bring her that disservice. "As we both know, my mouth does so often get the better of me and my speaking out of turn bought me quite a few cracks of the whip. The very first one drew blood. The only thing that crossed my mind was that you had another reason not to love me."  
        That explained some of the scars on his tired body. "Tyrion..." Sansa focused on his chest, tracing the white, faded lines gently, as though her touch might remove them.  
        "But, I was wrong, as I have been so many times before. That wasn't what you asked, though." He took a steadying breath and trailed his hand over her shoulder. "I knew for sure that I loved you when I'd heard you'd been re-married. Even then, not knowing the suffering you'd endure, I saw red. My heart broke. You were, as far as I knew, no longer mine and I didn't even get the chance. I wanted to sail for Winterfell immediately and kill the bastard myself. But, with what information I had, that wouldn't have been fair to you. If you were home, you were safe, and you deserved a life free of Lannisters." He entwined his free hand with the one she had over his heart, raising it to his face and pressing a kiss to it. "You deserved the chance."  
        She appreciated the thought, she supposed, but the thought that her second marriage could ever be seen as her 'chance' made her want to scream. "He melted my wedding ring," she remembered, quietly. Tyrion eyed her. He'd noticed that she didn't have it, but he'd never for a moment thought that it would be a story. "I know, it's stupid, but it was one of the worst memories I have of him." She held her cheek tighter still to her husband's chest, grounded in the moment by his heartbeat. "Lord Baelish had let me keep it because it was a reminder that 'we all deserve pretty things,' but that's not what it was to me. It was you. Somewhere out there, I had a husband who had never laid a hand on me. Who had protected me even before it was his duty. Who had shown me so much kindness when the rest of the world had made no such considerations for either of us. There were nights when I'd imagine that it was you making love to me, not him raping me," she blushed a little, despite herself. All the indignities she'd suffered and she found her cheeks reddening at the thought of fantasizing about her husband in the face of it all. "It got me through. I'd sever ties with reality and find you. One night, he'd taken me by surprise. I'd had the ring out of its safe place and slipped it on. When I looked at it, I could almost feel your hand in mine." Almost, she thought, but not like this. Never like the real thing. She stared at their joined hands, her left in his right. It was the smallest of gestures, but to her, it meant so much. "He'd let himself in and climbed on top of me, but noticed the gleam..." she paused, regaining herself as she felt tears begin to betray her composure. "He tore it from my hand, screamed some vile things about you, about how I'd lied to him that you'd never bedded me, doused it in Strongwine, and threw it in the hearth before having his way with me. All I could do was stare into the flames and watch it melt." Sansa shuddered like her body was trying to fend off its ghosts. "When his concubine came to me after to dress my wounds, she said it was the worst she'd seen and asked what I'd done to deserve it." She laughed darkly.  
        Tyrion silently and secretly worked his ring off of his free left hand with his thumb. It was a plain band of gold, nowhere near as ornate as the one he'd presented her those many years ago, but it belonged to her as much as it did him. He rolled to his side facing Sansa, loathe to disturb her, but unable to contain his idea, he spoke, "Until I can get one made that suits you, please wear mine." He held the ring out between them.  
        "That wasn't why I told you that," she sighed, closing her hand over his.  
        He wouldn't take no for an answer. "I know," he affirmed, sliding his ring onto her dainty finger. He smiled, noticing not a trace of the way her hand had trembled the last time he'd done this. "One flesh. One heart. One soul," he recited, whispering the vows in her ear.  
        "Now and forever," she continued.  
        "And cursed be the one who comes between them," he finished.  
        Sansa leaned forward, kissing her husband deeply and passionately. His hand rested comfortably on the small of her back and she pulled closer to him. "Thank you," she cooed into his mouth.  
        "You don't have to thank me for that. That is my pleasure," Tyrion said, gazing upon his wife. He smiled. "I suppose it's fitting that there be some form of ceremony in the North, even if it is just for us." The pair lay beside each other, lost in thought. "Sansa, do you mean to tell me that we spent that long night in the crypt by each others side, ready to die, and you didn't tell me?" he teased, equally as guilty of that fact.  
        "I'd hoped that you'd be able to see it in my face. I thought, when you kissed my hand, that you knew. That I didn't have to say it," she said, laughing a little at her foolishness. Of course, she had to say it. "But there was still so much to be done. I'd wished that you'd kiss me, but..." Tyrion interrupted her answer, kissing her tenderly. She parted her lips, breath escaping in a broken gasp. He nipped lightly at her bottom lip before his tongue begged entrance which she granted immediately. In the past, this type of kiss had only been taken by force, never gently- so gently- desired. She never knew how much she could like this kind of kissing. When they parted, some moments later, she smiled at him, thumbing some wetness from his lip, ignoring for tonight how other parts of her reacted in kind when he touched her. "We have the rest of our lives for that," she concluded, finally feeling sleep visit her.

        Tyrion woke early the next morning and busied himself drafting a ring to replace Sansa's. He made quick work of the sketch, knowing precisely what it should be: a lion head on one side holding a grey star sapphire and a direwolf head on the other grasping a star garnet. It should be much less lavish than the over-the-top ruby encrusted number she had originally, but still beautiful. Star stones were much more easy to come by than their more desired counterparts, and he had always found something more spectacular in their sheen.  
        He made haste before dawn to see if it could even be done. "Do you think you could forge this?"  
        Gendry took the paper from his hand and studied it for a moment. "On the end of a hilt? I suppose, yes."  
        "No, no," he laughed, realizing he hadn't clarified. "Small. Although, something similar would be excellent for when you finally extract your head from your ass and propose to my sister-in-law. I’d be more than happy to help you design that." He rolled his eyes when the Smith seemed to miss his prodding entirely. "For a finger. A ring."  
        "I’m not a jeweler, Lord Tyrion," he said.  
        "No, I know that, Lord Gendry, but all the best jewelers I can think of are gone now. So, instead, I come to the best smith I know." Gendry stoked the fire in his forge as Tyrion spoke. "Your work is impeccable, and you have intricate, delicate detail work. I have faith in you." The Smith smiled. Even if he didn't necessarily buy into the flattery, it was nice to hear. Finding comfort in the building's heat, Tyrion sat at a chair by the window. "If I procure the stones, do you have the more precious metals?"  
        "Of course, My Lord," he affirmed, still not sure that he could make something so small. He'd certainly need to practice. He found himself thinking of what an engagement ring sword hilt might look like. Perhaps a direwolf with waves crashing around it? Or held in the antlers of a stag? "My Lord?"  
        "Yes?"  
        "Shouldn’t I ask for Lady Arya’s hand? Of you or Lady Sansa?"  
        Of course, he'd caught the insinuation. He couldn't be that dense. _Good lad._ "Not if you’d like to live to ask Lady Arya herself. Do you think she would take kindly to knowing that anyone, anywhere had asked anything of someone else with regards to her hand?" The men laughed. That was certainly fair. "I believe the offending parties might lose some particularly helpful body parts that make marriage all the more enjoyable," he teased.  
        "That sounds about right."  
        "No. I’ll tell you what. I won’t even tell my wife that you suggested it. This will remain between us." He raised his eyebrows, insinuating that he meant the ring as well. Gendry nodded his understanding.  
        Tyrion left without another word. As he stepped into the cold, he immediately felt a draw to retreat back into the warmth, but decided against it, not wanting to worry Sansa with his absence.  
        _Crunch_.  
        Footsteps in the distance didn't bother him much. This area of the woods was heavily trodden by the people of Winterfell and the neighboring towns. "That's him," came a voice with the nearing steps. "Didn't expect to get 'im so soon!"  
        _Fuck_ , Tyrion thought, taking off as fast as he could manage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I'm sorry.  
> Also... I'm sorry.
> 
> Uh... rest assured that this is chapter 5, so like... there's quite a while before a sane person would kill off a main character.  
> Right?


	6. why do you care for me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of right now, the tags for this fic have been updated to Chapter 6. I'll try to update the tags a chapter ahead because there are some dark times coming up and I want to make sure you guys have time to prepare. I know that there's a chapter coming up that I had to take some time and pace to like... re-evaluate my life choices?

 

> It's so cold out here in your wilderness.  
>  I want you to be my keeper,  
>  but not if you are so reckless.  
>  \- Water Under The Bridge, Adele

  
  
        Tyrion's breath hastened as he ducked behind a tree, eyes surveying the road for his assailants. He silently cursed himself for believing that he'd be able to fulfill this one errand and be back before anyone noticed. He crouched, lowering his stature further and moved to the next tree.  
        _Snap_.  
        He stilled, frozen with fear. They'd surely find him now. He covered his face in his hands. So, this is how it ends?  
        A smattering of voices closed in. He had his dagger, but what were a half-man and a dagger supposed to do against three oafish would-be assassins with longswords, longbows and longer fucking arms?  
        "Hello there," the first attacker growled, yellowed teeth bared like a wild animal.  Tyrion could smell the ale on his breath.    
        Tyrion looked up at them. "Good morning. Is there something I can help you with?" he smiled, as charmingly as he could muster.  
        _Crack_.  
        The man lay a hard backhand to his jaw, sending him stumbling back against the tree.  He followed and repeated his strike once, then twice more.  He felt his lip begin to swell from repeated introductions to his teeth.  The metallic taste of blood swirled in his mouth.  
        The second man, much older than the first- his father, maybe?- laughed, kicking his leg out from under him.  He yanked him up by an arm and Tyrion felt his shoulder yield to the attack.  
        "Not likely," chortled the third, kicking him hard in the ribs, then punched him in the temple.  
        His vision swam for a few seconds as they administered their blows before going entirely dark. _I'm sorry, Sansa..._

        Arya had been watching the woods from the battlements before lunch. She had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach all morning, but something told her to just listen. She closed her eyes and searched for anything unusual.  
        "Arya! Open the gates!"  
        Gendry's voice bellowed from the ground, carrying something over his shoulder. Whatever it was, was it that urgent? As he got closer, she realized it wasn't something. It was someone. And there was only one person she could think of that it could be. "You heard him! Now!" she sped down the steps and into the courtyard, meeting him at the gate. Her suspicions were right. Tyrion. "What happened?" she asked, leading him toward the residence at a trot.  
        He was breathless and sweating. "He visited me, asked me for a favor, and left. I was heading out to chop some wood and found him, I don't..." the blacksmith stammered. He had acted so quickly and on instinct that as soon as he realized he was breathing, he brought him straight there. "Arya, I don't know how long he was out there. It had been hours. That was just after dawn."  
        "Fetch a maester," she barked at a maid who had followed them, mouth hanging open. "Go!" She commanded again, ushering Gendry into an empty room. "Here," she gestured, clearing a crate from the foot of the bed so he could set him down. "Fuck," she cursed, looking him over quickly. His left arm dangled at his side as though no longer attached within. If he'd left Gendry at dawn and only gotten as far as his woodpile... "If you die, you little shit, I'll bring you back and kill you myself. Do you hear me? Wake up!"  
  
        In a few minutes that felt like hours to Arya, Maester Ayn arrived and looked him over. Gendry told him what little he knew. The man asked Arya and Gendry to leave them, as he was going to have to remove Lord Tyrion's smallclothes to apply some salves and further ensure that there were no internal injuries. The pair crossed the hall and sat on the windowsill. Arya wrapped her arms around her lover's waist and kissed him on the cheek before tucking her head under his chin. "Thank you for bringing him here," she said.  
        Gendry smiled briefly, despite himself. "What are you going to tell Sansa?"  
        "I don't know," Arya groaned. She rubbed at the bridge of her nose; the blossoming headache allowed for her to miss the clack of her sister's heeled boots rounding the corner.  
        The Lady of Winterfell clasped her hands in front of her, raising her eyebrows. "How about the truth?"  
        The younger woman gaped at her. "No. I'd rather not tell you anything. I don't know anything, really. Just..." Arya struggled to find the words. Although she hadn't seen her face at the time, the sound of her sister's scream on a late summer's day on a square in a city far away still haunted her dreams. She feared she may get a repeat performance of the scream, but still did as she knew was right, "come with me." She took Sansa by the arm.  
        "Sansa."  
        "Lord Gendry?" she asked, turning back to her sister's companion.  
        He lost his nerve. "I'm sorry, My Lady," was all he could say, refusing to follow in behind them.  
        Arya opened the door slowly, carefully ushering Sansa in. "Tyrion?" she cried out, moving immediately to the bed, sitting next to her husband and taking his hand reflexively. When he didn't stir, panic rose in her like summer floodwaters. "What happened?" When she received no answer, she tried again, more forcefully. "WHAT HAPPENED?" Tears brimmed her eyes as she thought to strangle the maester for leaving her waiting. Finally, he began to explain. There'd been an attack in the woods, which explained his absence. Presumably, the sender of the letter. Arya blanched. _Why hadn't she told her that they were in danger?_ He continued, detailing what he'd done and what little he could do without further information from the patient. Sansa watched Tyrion's face as she absorbed the information and her stomach launched threateningly. "How long has he been unconscious?" she asked.  
        "We don't know, My Lady," he said, looking at Arya for confirmation. "The body is a strange thing. It does this sometimes to help itself heal. Usually, the injured comes to as their pain decreases." He put his hand on Sansa's shoulder and excused himself.  
        "Usually," Sansa repeated. Usually. That's fine. But she'd be damned if she wasn't going to try to rouse him on her own. "Wake up. Tyrion, please. You can't do this to me. You can't," she leaned over him, brushing his disheveled hair from his face. "I won't forgive you for it. Please," she leaned down and kissed him, acutely aware of his lack of response. "I love you and you need to wake up, now." She smoothed the covers over his chest and left her hand there. She needed to know. Her tears stilled as she located his heartbeat. Steady. Strong. She tried to convince herself that he was just passed out drunk. Except that he'd hardly had any to drink at all since his arrival.  
        Arya took in the scene in front of her. "You really do, don't you?" she asked, voice teeming with disbelief.  
        "What?" Sansa couldn't believe that she still had to ask.  
        "Love him."  
        She looked up at her little sister. "Does that surprise you so?"  
        Sighing, Arya answered, "No. I just hadn't seen it before." That much was certainly true. Since Lord Tyrion's arrival, Arya had seen very little of her sister. Hardly any of which socially. Truth be told, she was a little jealous, but she still couldn't bring herself to understand it.  
        "Arya, if he dies..." Sansa trailed off, unable to allow herself to think it.  
        "He won't. He's too stubborn," she said, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall. "And the little prick loves you too much." She daren't laugh, but she wanted to.  _Love is bizarre. War was easier._  
  
        The lunch hour passed and Arya went off in search of Bran, threatening Gendry within an inch of his life if he let Sansa or Tyrion out of his sight. _As if he didn't feel bad enough already._ As she found him in the courtyard, looking in the window to the quarters where Tyrion was being looked after, Bran answered the question she didn't have to ask. "It will happen or it won't, Arya."  
        She groaned. "Bran, she's our sister. Hell, he's our brother too, I suppose. But look at her." She adjusted his chair so his view was a little less obstructed. She stepped to her brother's side. "Really look at her. Do I have to prepare her to bury her husband? You weren't there when..." He blinked at her, expression otherwise unchanging. The birds. "I suppose you were. Dammit, Bran." Arya stormed off, exhausted of his riddles. She really needed to stab the bastards who did this.  
        "Make sure she eats. Take her to Brienne's," he called.  
        She looked back at him and nodded.  
  
        "I can't. I can't leave him," Sansa urged, shaking her head and reaching for the doorknob to go back to her husband.  
        Arya sighed, pushing herself against the door as Gendry watched them fight from beside her. "Sansa, you'll make yourself ill if you do nothing but sit vigil by his bedside. You can't help him then," she assured. "Come with me to Brienne's. I'm sure she'll be little comfort, but you can't be here." Her sister attempted to push her aside.  "Sansa..." Arya warned, putting a hand on her shoulder, a silent assurance that she could not and would not overpower her.  
        "Why do you care?" she whined.  
        Baffled at the question, she responded "You're my sister. I love you," with the same expression one would expect to be delivered with _What in the Seven Hells are you talking about, you absolute moron?_  
        Sansa's resolve folded. "I love you, too, Arya. But that's not what I mean. Our relationship has never been as strong as other siblings." Arya raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth suggestively. As she did, Sansa raised her index finger as a warning. "Say a word about my husband's sister and brother and wish you hadn't." Arya's teeth clicked together. Sansa closed her eyes, a smile creeping to her lips. The three laughed together for a long while. It felt good. The worried wife relaxed slightly, hugging her little sister tightly.  
        "We're not the same little girls we were when we left Winterfell. Or when father died. Sisters fight," Arya mused. "We're allowed to have different paths, Sansa. That doesn't mean I love you any less."  
        Still, she was reluctant. "I don't want to, Arya," she groaned. "What if I leave and he dies? I couldn't bear it," she banished the thought from her head as best she could. "He can't be alone."  
        Gendry shrugged, "If that's all it takes, I'll stay with him." Arya looked up at him gratefully.

        As they walked to Ser Brienne's, the Stark sisters talked with each other about the past few weeks. Pleasant thoughts were all Arya would allow her sister right now, so she kept the topics light. Still, their thoughts both swirled to Tyrion and his current situation. Sansa tried very hard not to worry. He was fine. He'd wake. He had to. Arya's constant vigilance was on overdrive. If Tyrion was subject to this attack because he was a Lannister, Sansa was likely vulnerable by association. The fact that Bran had deliberately said for them to go to Brienne did not ease her mind, either. There must have been a good reason. Arya had insisted that their guards stay back a fair distance so as not to interfere with her observations.  
        Brienne's home was just starting to come into view as the atmosphere of the woods changed. Footsteps grew closer and the hairs on the back of Arya's neck bristled. "We got him," came a voice, "Now, we'll get the little lion bitch."  
        The girls froze. Arya closed her eyes, right hand resting on Needle's hilt. "Sansa, stay put," she urged, staging her sister behind a tree facing away. "Pointy end," she reminded, gesturing to the dagger she'd insisted she carry. Darting behind the next tree, Arya turned away, donning a Face she'd had in her satchel. When she emerged, Sansa covered her mouth, stifling a gasp. All this time, she'd never seen her sister use a face.  
        "Got who?"  
        The attackers jumped back at the newcomer's sudden appearance. "Lord Tyrion Lannister. The North remembers," the elder man said, bowing his head.  
        "Ha. The North remembers. What did you do to him?"  
        From her hiding spot, Sansa closed her eyes. Unprepared to hear a boastful account of what had injured her husband. "Kicked the shit out of the little bastard. Left him to die. We told that wife of his to let go of him or else he'd be dead. She wouldn't. So we did."  
        Removing the borrowed Face as she heard the escorts coming in the distance, Arya gave a smile. "In the name of Lady Sansa Stark, Warden of the North and First of Her Name, I, Arya Stark of Winterfell do hereby sentence you to death." She shouted to the approaching men. "Seize them."  
        The men began to head for Arya and found themselves in the heat of battle. The noise drew the attention of the knight they were coming to visit. She grabbed her sword from its place by the door, the ornate handle all too familiar in her hand. She opened the door and gauged the scene. Arya and the guards had the situation well under control, save the man who was fleeing the scene. She sheathed her weapon and held it out to strike, swinging and knocking him to the ground with ease. She rested her foot atop his chest and waited for them to apprehend him before hugging the Stark girls, both of whom headed her way at a near run.  
        Sansa told her friend everything. The letter, the argument they'd had the previous night, that he left to meet with Gendry at dawn, the attack, his state when they'd left.  And that Bran had explicitly told Arya to take her here.  
        Brienne fixed them lunch as they spoke. "You know that's why he sent you out here, don't you?"  
        "I had discerned as much," Arya said from the spot she'd chosen on the floor, against the wall, rolling her eyes a little.  
        "So, why are you still out here?" she asked, leaning against the back of the chair.  
        Sansa, who'd picked up Jaime and hugged her as soon as she walked through the door, propping her on the hip and following Brienne around, still unable to allow herself to rest. "Arya's right. I'm of no use there." She bounced the little girl on her hip a couple of times, focusing as much of her attention on her niece as she could.  
        She tilted her head a little, bewildered by Sansa's easy surrender. "And when he wakes up, and you're not there?" She sat in the chair and looked at her daughter sadly. "I'm not saying that your outcome is going to be the same, but if I'd had the chance to sit with Jaime in his last moments, you'd have had to drag me away with a team of horses."  
        She considered Brienne's words and looked to Arya, who shied away from her sister's stare. The three women ate fairly quickly and moved their good-byes to the door. "Come with us. It's too cold out here." She wasn't necessarily talking about the Winter winds either. Truthfully, she worried about them being alone outside of Winterfell.  "Brienne, you're our family, too. I know you don't believe me, but you shouldn't be alone. No one should. Not after all we've been through."  
        It took a little more work, but Arya and Sansa managed to convince Brienne to pack a bag for herself and the baby, and to join them in Winterfell, at least for a little while. She'd have some independence back, should she desire, and be surrounded by her little family.  
        Brienne eyed Sansa curiously. She hadn't put Jaime down since she picked her up upon arrival. Even now, they were nearly halfway through their walk back to Winterfell and she had hardly repositioned her. "Should we be welcoming another lion cub, then?" she asked.  
        Arya's eyes widened at Brienne's question, smiling at her older sister.  
        "No. We still haven't..." Sansa looked down. Another thing to regret if she were to lose him today.  
        "Sansa! You've been holed up with him for weeks!" Arya guffawed. "You've scarcely left your chambers and when you do, you two can't seem to keep your hands off one another."  
        She blushed, wishing to avoid the subject entirely. It mightn't matter anyway. "We're just getting reacquainted. Courting, sort of. What? We never got the chance to before."  
        "Do you know how much money you just lost me?" the younger Stark growled.  
        Sansa's voice squeaked a shocked "Arya!" Jaime seemed to attempt to imitate her aunt's squeak, earning her a kiss on the cheek from her mother.

        "Still no change, My Ladies," Gendry updated them as the three women entered the room.  
        Sansa smiled weakly, looking not at him, but at her husband. "Very well. Thank you, Lord Gendry," she said, sitting next to Tyrion on the bed and taking his free hand between hers. As the young blacksmith left, Sansa addressed her sister. "Arya, don't make him wait too much longer. He'll wait forever, we both know it, but don't make my mistakes. Don't deny yourself the happiness."  
        Her expression turned incredulous. "I'm n-"  
        She looked at her sadly. "Arya... Does he know your feelings? I know you're frequent bedfellows, but does he know your heart?" The change in Arya's face as she realized what she needed to do would have been nearly imperceptible to anyone else but Sansa. "Go to him," she urged. The younger girl kissed her sister on the cheek and raced from the room.  
        "You've changed," Brienne assessed, rocking the sleeping babe in her arms.  
        "Is that so?"  
        "Could it be that he's been a good influence on you? The Sansa Stark that rose as Lady of Winterfell was perceptive and wise, sure, but that was different. She was solitary and cold. She was alone. And one by one, her pack increased." Sansa looked over at Brienne. "Watching you with Jaime today was a softness that I so wished for you. And the way you spoke so gently to Arya just now? You've endured so much, Sansa. You deserve at least that."  
        Sansa sighed, turning back to Tyrion. "Weak is what you mean."  
        The knight shook her head. "No, Sansa, not weak. You have the life you dreamed of as a girl. The life we are all fed as highborn ladies," she looked down at her little girl and smiled. "Maybe life caused some weathering along the way, and your happy ending didn't have the plot you expected, but it's yours." Brienne watched her sister-in-law sadly, wishing she'd had that chance with her husband. "Are you happy?"  
        "At the present?" Sansa guffawed. "If you'd asked me twenty-four hours ago, yes. Blissfully so."  
        Brienne stood, crossing the room and placing a hand on Sansa's shoulder. "This will pass. Everything does."  
        Patting her hand and resting her head against it fondly, Sansa bid them goodnight. "Get some rest," she said, pressing a kiss to Brienne's cheek, then Jaime's.  
        "You, too," Brienne prompted, then made her way through the door, leaving Sansa to her thoughts.  
        Gingerly, Sansa lay at the edge of the bed that was, to be certain, not meant for two. "Please, my love, I know you're tired. I'd bid you take your time, but I'm afraid," she said, running her fingers through his curls. Every fiber of her being screamed for him to open his eyes. "Just, please, Tyrion, open your eyes for me. Stir," she commanded. "Whisper my name so that I know that you're still in there." She kissed his forehead lightly. "I love you." Still nothing. Her heart sank. "Please, Tyrion. I'll do anything. You cannot leave me. Do you understand?" She kissed him tenderly, leaving a hand twisted in his beard. "Tyrion, I forbid it." She felt the threatening sting of tears at her eyes. "I am your wife, I love you, and I forbid you to die." She was beginning to lose her composure. "Please, Tyrion, wake up. I'm sorry that I haven't been by your side. I'm sorry I've been an ungrateful, unworthy wife. Please wake up. I beg you. Please." _I am the God of Tits and Wine._ Desperation sinking in, Sansa formed a wicked plan. "Since begging seems to leave you unmoved, but perhaps I'm using some wrong devotions for the God of Tits And Wine..." she slid one shoulder of her gown down and brought his uninjured hand to caress the arch of her breast. She guided it down, holding it against the fullest part. She brushed his fingers against the nipple. She held his hand at her breastbone, willing her beating heart to knock at the door to his consciousness. Defeated, she put his hand down in her lap and fixed her gown.  
        "Now, I know that I'm dead," said Tyrion, voice groggy and low. His vision began to clear, but he didn't need sight to know that it was his wife's voice. And hands. And he'd have to be long dead to forget the feeling of a breast, despite the shock it belonging to his sweet, as-yet-untouched-by-him wife. Sansa blinked in disbelief. _Had that really worked?_ She refused to get her hopes up until he spoke again. Tyrion opened his eyes, finally, unbelievably grateful for her presence. "I'm sorry, Sansa. I should have listened." He dared not move yet, unready to assess what sort of damage had been done to him.  
        She took his hand back in her. "No, that's not-" and just like that, her tightly wound composure fell apart. She hung her head low, holding his hand against her cheek as she wept. Every emotion she had swallowed down that day poured out with each sob that wracked her body.  
        "Hey now, stop that," Tyrion insisted quietly. "Don't cry, Sansa." He chased her tears away with his thumb gently. She curled up next to him, momentarily afraid that the touch might hurt. He brought her closer still with his strong arm and kissed the top of her head. "I love you."  
        Sansa sobbed harder. She never thought she'd hear him say those words again.

        By morning, when Tyrion was resting comfortably and, thankfully, still conscious, Sansa found it easier to breathe again. "He'll be fine. Just needs some rest, mostly," the maester reassured. "A sprained ankle and dislocated shoulder which we've reset, but mainly battered and bruised. He's still in some considerable pain, but we can bring him to your chambers."  
        She still had questions. "Why didn't he wake?"  
        Maester Ayn gazed upon the Lady fondly. "He was knocked out, My Lady, nothing more. His account and the accounts yourself, Lady Arya, Ser Brienne, and Ser Gendry brought seem concurrent. The culprits are dispatched with and your Lord Husband is safe. Be with him. Your siblings and I will manage the courtly duties for a few days," he said, gesturing towards the door.  
        "Thank you, Maester Ayn," she said, grateful to have such support in Winterfell. "Are you sure about..."  
        He nodded, amused with her hesitance. "It needn't be much. I would certainly not suggest anything too strenuous for him, but it has been known to have certain... remedial effects."  
        Sansa gulped.

        "How are you feeling?" she asked when they'd made it back to their chambers. He'd been given a crutch and had his shoulder supported in a sling. He'd largely avoided the crutch, opting instead to take his wife's arm as they walked.  
        Tyrion smiled, climbing into their bed with a sigh. "Sore. But intact."  
        She sat at the edge of the bed, arranging a cushion under his ankle. "Is there anything you need?"  
        "Just you," he said, grimacing and reaching a hand out to her. That was all the signal she needed to take the Maester's pain relief advice. She lay next to him, suddenly very calm. She desperately wanted to do anything she could to help him. Very carefully, she leaned in and kissed him more passionately than she'd ever kissed him before. She kissed his neck. She undid the clasp on his furs and toyed with the coarse hair on his chest. She raised onto her hands and knees, looming over top of him, kissing him again. "Sansa-" he breathed. He deepened the kiss, placing his uninjured right hand on the small of her back. Sansa trailed her hand back down his chest, past his ribs, and teasing just above the waistband of the simple pants she'd brought to him specifically this morning for their ease of removal. As she began to feel his arousal stir to life, she smiled mischievously. "What are you... Sansa, stop," Tyrion said, breathlessly, placing his hand over hers. "What are you doing?" He sat up, temporarily obstructing her mission.  
        She halted her ministrations, yielding to her husband. "I've read that pleasure is often a pain relief. That's why there are so many women near to battlefields."  
        "Yes," he nodded, remembering a crowd of wanton women around the encampments all those years ago. "There are other reasons, too, but I suppose that could be one reason," he said. His reasoning had been more along the lines of _If I'm going to die in the morning, at least let me die sated,_ but he certainly did not want Sansa to have thoughts of him in that manner. She knew who he was then, surely. Still, he disliked reminding her of that. Presently, he disliked the notion that he'd had any other women, especially when his wife looked at him like that.  
        "And I don't want to see you in pain," Sansa said. "I never want you to know pain by my side." She lifted their hands together, placing them against her heart as she spoke. "I love you. I want to help you." She stared into his eyes, willing him to listen and believe that this was her choice. He'd always led her to believe that she held the reigns, as it were. "Let me help you. Just lie back," she guided him back to where he'd previously lain and kissed him again, returning her hands to his body.  
        In her life, she recalled hearing stories of how men liked to be kissed below the belt. It had always seemed so strange to her, but the more she worked at him, the more her mind told her to do it. She wasn't quite finished, yet. She still had some convincing to do. She trailed feather-light kisses down his chest, taking special care to avoid the bruises. When she found herself once again at his waist, she brushed her hair to one shoulder, assuring that Tyrion would be able to see her face as she worked. She smiled, palming slowly at the at his manhood through the fabric. "Shit, Sansa," he hissed, hips hitching towards her instinctively.  
        Sansa mistook his writhing for discomfort, looking back to him. No sooner did she look did she see the pleasure on his face. She clasped one hand with his, still wanting to make sure. "Is this alright?" she asked, resuming her previous motion.  
        He closed his eyes and smiled, "Yes, that's... Sansa, are you sure?" He asked breathlessly. "You don't have to do this." _But, Gods, please don't stop._  
        She pulled back, having planned this part all along. Men were, after all, highly visual creatures. A wicked grin tugged at her lips. "I know. Maybe you need to see me before you believe me. Would that convince you?" She raised her brows, standing back from the bed.  
        Tyrion's mouth hung open slightly as he watched her disrobe. Sansa took her time, building the carefully crafted tension. She lifted one long, porcelain leg to the bed, undoing her stockings first. She was a lady, after all, and a lady never rushes. With practiced hands, she undid the fastenings at the back of her own dress, a simple light grey velvet gown with a cinched waist. She chose it because, while she adored the way it felt and the way it made her look, it wouldn't betray her intentions. It dropped unceremoniously to the floor, having done its duty. Tyrion felt his heartbeat quicken as she toyed with the hem on her shift for a moment, eyeing him.  
"You're impossible," he said, voice deep with lust.  
        Sansa lifted the shift off over her head, feeling tension pool deep within her belly at his word. She returned to the bed, now sure he was ready for her. "And you haven't winced once since..." she looked down at his still clothed, now massive bulge proudly. She slid his pants down just past his member. She brought her mouth to it, kissing low around the shaft before bringing her mouth down around it once. When she came back up, she purred, "I act purely on instinct here and will continue to do so as I have yet to be wrong, but tell me how." Her husband nodded. She returned her mouth to his cock, and slid down and back a few times, teasingly. "Too slow?" she asked, and he nodded once again. She added her hands back into the mix as they were capable of more steady work, and it freed her mouth for different matters. "Better now?" she asked, pumping softly and making his eyes roll back.  
        "Kiss me," he said. Sansa obliged this. Tyrion deepened the kiss, pulling his wife flush against him. Sansa had never realized how strong he really was, but his hand on her back, even in his slightly weakened state, sent pulses through her body. _Not today,_ she thought, shooing thoughts of her own pleasure from her mind. _This is all for him._ "Sansa, please," he moaned, sliding his hand down to the crest of her rear-end. "Fast...er," he said. She watched him as his muscles tensed. She knew how long it had been and she was familiar enough with the ways of men to know that he was close. "Fuck," he cursed, thrusting against her hand as his own urges took over. "Gods," he sighed, kissing her on his own this time. He couldn't help himself.  
        She panted a little, previously unaware of just how much she could want someone. The way her husband moved to her, said her name... "I love you," she whispered mid-kiss, more like a prayer meant only for him.  
        "Sansa," he cried out as he finished, trembling. Sansa grabbed a soft towel from where she'd left it on the nightstand, cleaning them off. "I love you," he said, watching his wife with wonder. She would never cease to amaze him.  
        She laid by his side, resting her head against his good shoulder. "I love you, Tyrion," she said, laying a gentle kiss to his neck. "Feel better?" Her pulse still raced.  
        "Perfect," he answered.  
        She smiled at him. "See? And you weren't going to let me," Sansa admonished, playfully.  
        He laughed, shaking his head. "I am a stupid man," he said, tilting her chin up to him to kiss her again. "And I love you."  
        Sansa smiled, satisfied with herself and his post-orgasmic comfort. "I know," she teased. "Rest now, stupid man."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank you guys so much for all of your kind words so far. It really means a lot, especially since it's been so long. The last thing I wrote was posted 3 years ago, I think, so I was super nervous when I got hit with the inspiration for this. Hopefully, I don't disappoint you all!
> 
> We're still only about 1/3 of the way through now, so buckle in!  
> Also, if anyone is interested in listening to all the song lyrics I use in the beginning of chapters/as titles in this fic, there's a companion playlist on Spotify of the same name, As I Lay Beside The Fire.


	7. when we all fall asleep where do we go?

> I don't need more reminders of all that's been broken.  
> I don't need you to fix what I'd rather forget.  
> Clear the slate and start over, try to quiet the noises in your head.  
> We can't compete with all that.  
>  \- Only Us, Dear Evan Hansen

        It had come to her the previous night as she'd fallen asleep pressed against her husband after her less-than-proper attempt at healing him. It had worked... sort of. He'd drifted off to sleep peacefully shortly after he'd come. She continued to hold him, warding off her own fears that he'd be ripped away from her again. She knew her fear was ill-placed; Arya had seen to that. It felt oddly fitting, really, a scared wolf guarding her wounded lion as he slept, knowing fully that he would do the same if the tables were turned and it was she who needed protection. She traced the silhouette in her mind in simple lines onto his chest, two apex predators, entwined gracefully, proudly and fiercely protecting each other back to back.  
        When she awoke the next morning, dawn hadn't even begun to break. And he was there. He was still in her arms. They hadn't... she shook the nightmare from her head and carefully slipped from the bed. She retrieved her sketchbook, replaced and did up her dressing gown, and her dressing table chair and repositioned it nearer to the bed. She put her feet up, using her knees as an easel and began drafting their combined sigils. The hopeless romantic young girl who'd left that very house ten years prior smiled from a deeply secluded place in her memory.   
        Tyrion groaned in his sleep, tearing Sansa from her thoughts. His breathing grew ragged, writhing a little. She watched her husband. It pained her to see him suffer so. She wished there was more to be done, but healing takes time; the scars on both of their bodies were proof enough of that. As he stilled, chest once rising and falling in even waves, she eased.  
        Even under the new, peaceful reign, old prejudices never rested. _The North remembers._ She clenched her jaw at the criminal's use of those words. Sansa Stark _was_ the North. She remembered their losses as well as anyone. She also understood that the North was not the only place where losses had been incurred. To hold any one person responsible...   
        If only it were that simple. She wished there were a singular face to hate for the death of her father, her mother, Robb, Rickon, the sister-in-law and babe she never knew. The world offered no such cleanliness. What it did offer now was hope. It offered a fresh start. A chance to rebuild and go from there.  
Sansa nestled into the high winged back of her chair. Her mind built some of the world she wanted to see. A summer afternoon. A picnic. Brienne and her little Jaime, grown ever more to be the spitting image of her father. Arya and Gendry sparring in the shade. Bran focused on a toddler in his lap. A boy with her Tully red hair but Tyrion's curls and green eyes. A babe suckling at her breast and Tyrion beside her incapable of taking his gaze from his family. She wanted that. She slipped into that dream, letting its warmth engulf her.  
        Hours passed and Tyrion woke with a start around the noon hour. His body felt light, warm... And sore. So fucking sore. He hissed an intake of breath, trying to sit himself up without disturbing his sleeping wife. His sleeping wife who wasn't there! _Sansa..._ Memories of last night flooded back to him and he panicked, recognizing her absence. Had he embarrassed her? As the room cleared into focus, he saw her, radiant in the light of the fireplace. Had she been watching him? He smiled at the thought.  
        She was truly a sight to behold. The calm smile on her lips was unlike any expression she'd ever worn in his presence before. Wondering what she dreamt of that gave her such joy, he decided that he'd give just about anything to keep her there. Tyrion surmised that, after the last couple of days, she needed sleep as much as everyone said he did.  
Tyrion never wanted to see her weep the way she did when he'd finally awoken. He never wanted to see her weep at all; he'd seen enough of it at Joffrey's hand. He'd promised that he'd never hurt her. But this wasn't his fault. That didn't change the guilt he felt at causing her any more pain.   
        _Speaking of..._ He finally took the time to truly examine his injuries. The massive bump on his head throbbed, his left shoulder ached despite the sling, his ankle twinged despite being wrapped and raised. Other than that, he appeared to be alright. But every muscle complained. He was covered in bruises and scrapes. All in all, he was grateful to have made it home to Sansa.   
        Returning his gaze to his wife, his thoughts ran wild. She was so sure and determined last night. He'd always imagined that any steps that they took in intimacy would have to be guided by his knowledge. Sansa, however, seemed to have a natural instinct for it. He thought of all the ways he wanted to thank her for her pain relief but stopped himself. If last night had been a fluke and merely clinical, as she said, then he didn't want to get his hopes up. She hadn't even made a motion to pleasure herself, despite seeming to enjoy it. Had he misread the situation entirely? But, _Gods_ , he wanted to...   
        He had to distract himself. He plucked a book from the bedside table and began thumbing through it absently. It was a collection of songs and poems about the Great Houses of Westeros. It seemed to be a brand new edition. He was glad to find himself in such familiar company until he came to a song he'd never heard. _He rode through the streets of the city down from his hill on high. O'er the winds and the steps and the cobble, he rode to woman's sigh. For she was his secret treasure, she was his shame and his bliss and a chain and a keep are nothing compared to a woman's kiss. For hands of gold are always cold but a woman's hands are warm. And there he stood with sword in hand, the last of darry's tem, and red the grass beneath his feet and red his banners bright and red the glow of setting sun that bathed him in its light. Come on, come on, the great lord called. My sword is hungry still and with a cry of savage rage they swarmed across the rill._ Tears welled in his eyes. He saw his family's sigil emblazoned on the corner of the page and tore it out, shutting the book instantly. He balled the paper in his fist and held it over the candle that must have burned through the night. He could only think of two possibilities as to the nature of the song but either way, he felt himself burning with rage at whichever minstrel had penned it. No matter what the case may be, no matter how much time had passed, fate would never stop trying to ruin him.   
        Tyrion sat in absolute silence for a time, actively choosing to forget every word he'd just read. A light knock came at the door.  
        "Come in," he called quietly. "But softly, please."  
        Arya entered the room slowly. She cursed to herself silently. "Is she asleep? It's past noon," she said, taking in the scene in front of her.  
        "I know, but let her rest," he said.  
        She folded her arms and leaned against the bedpost. "I'm supposed to get you both out walking," she said, turning her head to the door.  
        Tyrion shrugged. "I'll come with you, but leave her be."  
        Staring at her sister as Tyrion searched for a tunic, Arya mused. "She looks happy. Did you..."  
        "My Lady," he interrupted as he moved to the edge of the bed. "I believe that's not for us to discuss." He felt his cheeks redden a bit.  
        "You do know that even ladies discuss that type of thing with their sisters, right?" She circled the bed, coming to his side. Tyrion winced as he eased himself off the bed. "Do you need help?" she asked.  
        "No, thank you.  I am mortified enough that you may know as many intimate details as you claim."  
        The younger Stark girl smiled to herself. She located his crutch and handed it to him. "Here," Arya said offering her arm. He waved her off and began heading for the door. "Are you sure?" she asked when they were in the hall. "Knock yourself out, then," she said, throwing her hands up and crossing her arms.  
        Tyrion stopped and looked at her questioningly, as though to ask _Are you sure you meant that?_ When she realized what she had said, she looked to him, meaning to apologize, but was instead met with a vulgar hand gesture and an incredulous laugh. She hid her face in her hands, laughing loudly.   
        "Come on, then," she said, moving them along. Their joking turned back to awkward silence quickly. Neither really knew what to say to the other. Truthfully, they hadn't spent much time in each others' presence. All either of them really knew of the other's personality was contingent upon how much Sansa loved them. Arya sighed, thinking back on all the drama of the last couple of days. "You're an asshole, you know that, don't you?"  
        "So I've been told," he admitted.  
        Arya continued. "Sansa was a wreck. What type of moron dallies off into the woods alone _in the dark_ to take a note to a blacksmith the night after receiving a threat on his life? I thought you were supposed to be _the smartest man in all the kingdoms._ " She feigned a swoon meant to imitate her sister.  
        Tyrion laughed. Sansa had never been one to swoon. "Apparently not. I guarantee you, My Lady, that was not my intent. I went to your Blacksmith for a personal errand and did not wish to have word land back with my Lady Wife."  
        "Personal errand?" she questioned, raising an eyebrow. With _Gendry_? At dawn?  
        "Forgive me, but did you not already disclose that you and your sister share a great many things," he chided. "Besides, perhaps I gained other secrets from our mutual friend, Lord Baratheon."  
        Eyes widened in shock, Arya spluttered, "I don't know what you mean." The pair found themselves falling into easy rapport as they strolled the hallways for another quarter of an hour or so. "Can you do another lap or shall I return you to my sister?" Arya asked as they reached the door to Tyrion and Sansa's bedroom.  
        "I believe I'm spent, for now," he nodded his thanks.  
        "Alright, then," Arya said, turning to go. She stopped and turned back to him. "Tyrion. Don't hurt her. I'd hate to have to kill you."  
        He held a hand over his heart, voice sincere. "I would never."  
        "I know," she admitted. "You're not so bad."  
        Tyrion smiled. "A high compliment. I've enjoyed your company as well, Lady Arya." She gave him a serious look that may well have had a dagger in it somewhere. "Just Arya then."  
        The younger girl smiled, walking away. "You are my brother, after all," she called over her shoulder.   
        A Stark had just called him brother. _To his face._ Sure, she'd also threatened his livelihood... He turned into his bedroom. Sansa was still peacefully dreaming in the chair.  He couldn't wait for her to wake any longer. He sat on the chest at the foot of the bed and reached to stroke her cheek, "Sansa," he said gently. "Sansa, wake up." She stirred, gifting him the grace of her brilliant blue eyes. "Good afternoon, my love."  
        Sansa smiled, caressing the hand on her cheek, sleep still looming in her eyes. As she truly came about, she sat up, concerned. "What are you doing out of bed?"  
        He took his wife by the hand. "It had been insisted that I take in some air and exercise my ankle."  
        "You should have roused me. I would have come," she insisted.  
        "I had help," he said. Admittedly, it felt foolish, but he was excited to have someone from her family accept him openly.  
        Sansa tilted her head, skeptically. "From who?"  
        "Family," he beamed.  
        She blinked at the word, a smile playing at her mouth. "Oh really?"  
        "The _Lady_ may have been sent to aid in rehabilitating, but I do believe Arya came of her own accord to be a little sister. She jibed, she questioned, she laughed, she threatened and, may I add, she called me her brother?"   
        Sansa laughed a little, enjoying his excitement. "You may _have_ her," she said, rolling her eyes. "When you say threatened?"  
        "Indeed," he laughed. "The duty had been done already by your cousin, but surely I deserve more warnings. _Don't hurt her. I'd hate to have to kill you._ " He paused a moment, wondering whether or not to mention his first thought, deciding maybe she'd enjoy the comparison. "She sounded an awful lot like a different Stark."  
        Sansa nodded, knowing what he meant. "She is father's daughter. I'm surprised you didn't get a _The Lone Wolf dies, but the Pack Survives_ out of her." She laughed a little, imagining her whole family taking turns protecting her honor and trying to outdo each other with creative, but outlandish threats. She smiled, reaching for his hand. "What did Jon say?"  
        He thought back to the feast celebrating his arrival in the North. "Something about being prepared for me to be the _first prisoner sent to the Wall under the reign of Queen Daenerys. It's lonely out there under the best of circumstances._ " He mimicked Jon's somber, gruff voice and neverending pout.  
        "You sound just like him," she laughed.   
        He could listen to her laugh all day. She'd done so little of it for so long. "I've spent a great deal of time in your cousin's presence, I'm afraid," he said, rolling his eyes at the sheer volume of moping one man could do.   
        Sansa rubbed her thumb against the top of her husband's hand, focus drawn back by an angry purple bruise on his right forearm. "I wish people trusted you more," she said.  
        Unaware of the distraction, he answered, "Believe it or not, I could be a heavenly being, pure and godly, sent directly for your pleasure and protection, and I would still expect threats from others who love you. That is what family does, I'm told," he said, rubbing his shoulder.   
        "Still sore?" she asked, raising from her chair and moving to his side.  
        "Sansa, I'm not broken," he assured, finishing his stretch. He cupped the side of her face in his hand, looking squarely into those brilliant blue eyes. "I've survived much worse than this."   
        She thumbed at the scar that reached across his handsome face. _Especially with the scar._ "I know that," she said, leaning in almost to kiss him, then pulling away, sticking her tongue out at him. "Come then, supper should be upon us." She smiled at him, proud of her restraint and offered her hand.


	8. today i'm thinking about the things that are deadly

It's hard lovin' a man, that's got a Gypsy soul  
I don't know how you do it; I'm not sure how you know  
The perfect thing to say, to save me from myself  
You're the angel that believes in me, like nobody else  
And I thank God you do  
\- You Save Me, Kenny Chesney

        In the days since the attack on Tyrion, things had mostly calmed. Still, Sansa felt remarkably ill-at-ease. As with all things, when emotionally hard times fall, all of the past's traumas come boiling to the surface. Sansa had more than enough to go around. The nightmares she struggled with, which had just about ceased since Tyrion's arrival came back full-force that whole week. She tossed and turned, moaning quietly in her sleep. Tyrion closed his book quietly, placing it on the bedside table. He reached out and touched his wife tenderly. He had learned quickly that shaking or getting too close was not particularly wise. "Sansa, wake up." She whimpered again, voice strained. "Sansa, it was a dream," he finally roused her and tugged her against his body, pushing her sweat-drenched hair from her eyes. "What was it this time?"   
        Sansa settled against him. She wrapped her arm around his middle and hugged tightly. "The Red Keep. Joffrey," she sniffed, voice still full of tears. "He made you watch. Then Ramsay. Then Baelish. Each time, you grew more disgusted." She couldn't bring herself to look her husband in the eye, knowing his gentle gaze would be her undoing. He circled his thumb over a knot of tension where her shoulder met her neck. The reality's stark contrast from the dream she'd so freshly left boggled her. "You stared at me every time they took their turn and you were so... angry. I screamed and wept. I reached for you. And you left."   
        "I'm sorry. Sansa," he kissed the top of her head, silently cursing any God that may have been left, "it was a dream. I'm here." He rubbed her arm lightly. "I'm not disgusted. I love you." He pulled her in as close as he could. Tyrion adjusted his arms, as though they might shield her from their torturous return. "I love you. They're gone." Feeling her begin to calm against his chest, he closed his eyes. "Rest now."

        After the first council meeting of the day, Maester Ayn sought Tyrion for analysis of his healing. "The shoulder seems to be better, My Lord. I'd wager you could remove the sling." All too eager to be rid of the damned thing, he slid the fabric over his head, rolling the joint slowly as a demonstration that he could. "How is the pain in your ankle?" the elder man asked, rolling Tyrion's foot and checking for any signs of pain.  
        "Much less," he assured.   
        Gesturing for him to stand, he asked "Can it support your weight?  
        "What little of it there is?" He laughed at himself. The maester did not. Clearing his throat, he answered "Better than it could yesterday."  
        "Very well. The bruising?"  
        Tyrion nodded, very eager to be out of this assessment, clear of health, and on with his life. "Gone, for the most part, spare the one on my head and the largest one over my ribs."  
        "May I?" the Maester asked, motioning his intent for Tyrion to show him the one on his ribs. "It's no worse, so I wouldn't concern myself with it."  
        With a nod, Tyrion muttered a "Thank you," and left before there could be any further discussion. When he reached the hall, he breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, back to normal. "Are you feeling better, My Lady?" he asked, taking his seat to Sansa's right and kissing her hand gently.  
        Sansa smiled at her husband. "Still shaken, but yes." She leaned over and planted a soft kiss to his lips, a rather indecent gesture in front of the other members of her court, formally, but it felt necessary. "For being there."  
        "There is nowhere else I'd rather be," Tyrion assured her.

        Unfortunately, where Tyrion would rather be wasn't much of a consideration where Queen Daenerys and her desires of her Hand were concerned. Just after the noontime meal, a raven landed upon the desk where Tyrion sat in the library. Turning the small envelope over in his hands, he caught glimpse of the dragon sigil emblazoned in the silver wax seal and closed his eyes.  
        _My Lord Hand,_  
 _I hate to disturb a happy home, but your presence is required at Laithenstone, a day's journey from Winterfell. Depart as soon as possible. Find Lord Commander Snow there with detail as I do not yet trust that my words will not be intercepted and used against me._  
 _Best-_  
 _Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Lady of Dragonstone, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons._  
        "When your title is longer than your message, what message are you truly sending?" Sansa groaned. Having caught her in the hallway as he returned to their chambers to dress for dinner, he'd handed the letter off wordlessly. As its contents registered, Sansa stopped walking. "Tyrion..." He turned back, her expression betrayed her thoughts entirely. _You're not seriously entertaining the idea of leaving._   
        Tyrion tilted his head, returning to her. "I have to," he said, defeated.  
        Her carefully crafted public demeanor began to falter. She took a breath, steadying herself. "You don't." There was a softness in her eyes that she could only afford her husband to see. Thankfully, the only other person in the hallway was walking from behind her and couldn't see her face.  
        "I don't recall seeing an option," he said, growing a little irritated, batting at the paper she held at him like an accusation.  
        Sansa straightened her shoulders, beginning to move again in an effort to take this conversation out of public view. "There are always options. You were attacked. You are still healing."  
        He looked up at his wife imploringly, struggling to keep up with her long, deliberate strides. "Sansa, I don't _want_ to leave," he said, teeth gritted and voice low, much more closely resembling a roar than he'd intended.  
        She reached the door to their chambers, swinging it open. "Then, don't."   
        "Sansa!" The end of her name turned to an exasperated shout.  
        _Slam_. The door shut sharply.  
        He leaned against the wall across the hallway, readying himself for the next stage. He undid the suddenly constricting buttons on his vest and pushed up his sleeves, looking out the window at the new-fallen snow. He didn't want to argue. He knew that he had no choice. So did she. She had to.  
        After a minute to allow them both to calm down, he entered their bedroom slowly, deliberately avoiding her gaze. Sansa sat on the edge of the bed, hands buried in her face. "I'm sorry. I just don't..."  
        "I don't either," Tyrion said, kicking the note Sansa had clearly discarded as soon as she was behind the door. "She doesn't even say how long to expect to be." He balled his fists and dug them into his hips, refusing to look at her.  
        "At least you'll have Jon with you," a thought which gave her little comfort, all things considered. "It's not fair." Tyrion began to pace, trying to come up with a happier solution. Sansa's blue eyes, red-rimmed under threat of tears, followed him intently.  
        "That it's not," he agreed. Tyrion covered his eyes, with a hand, rubbing them once before holding pressure at the bridge of his nose in an attempt to chase away the nagging headache he worried he would have until he returned to Sansa... whenever that would be. "You could ask Brienne or Arya to come stay with you."  
        Sansa shook her head. "It's not the same."  
        Tyrion laughed, finally looking at her. "Because my relationship with your brother is." He gave a sarcastic little smile as he walked toward her and Sansa rested her head to one side, _you know that's not what I mean_ painted all over her face. "It's better than waking up to an empty room," he said, reaching his hand to caress her cheek.  
        "I'll manage," she finally admitted, leaning a kiss into his palm.   
        "I know you will."   
        The Lady of Winterfell dropped back onto the mattress, staring up at the canopy, breathing out a nearly silent "Fuck." Her Lord Husband feigned shock at her use of such language and moved to the bed, situating himself next to her. "How did this happen so fast?" she asked no one in particular.  
        "Sansa," he said, quite confidentially, "I appear to have broken you."  
        She turned her head and stared at him for a time. "Perhaps," she answered, propping herself on her elbow to take him in better. "However, I think quite the opposite. I've been broken. You don't _need_ a person who breaks you."  
        Twirling a lock of her soft red hair between his fingers, he regarded her carefully. "Sansa, forbid me to go."  
        "If I really thought I could," she said, toying absently with the fraying bottom hem of his shirt that she'd been meaning to mend for days, "I would forbid you from leaving my side." They lapsed into silence. They'd still had so little time, and none of it had been decidedly calm. She wanted a chance to build a routine- to truly know each other. It was the type of thing that took time, she knew, but their situation had been so unique from the start. Time held such a strange place for them. She knew that the events of their lives had to align in just the way they had, but it left her feeling they had so much lost time to make up for. Nearly nine years married and learning each other like newlyweds. Like _teenagers_. She wondered if it felt as odd to him. He seemed so willing to follow wherever events took them. One of the things Sansa would never admit that she loved so much about him was how settled he was within himself. Tyrion's maturity and worldliness fascinated her. She could never admit that to anyone, she thought, because it had been such a part of the walls they'd initially built, hadn't it? _What am I going to do?_ Eventually, she broke herself out of her own thoughts into reality. "I suppose you leave at dawn?"   
        "Indeed, so as to arrive at Laithenstone before day's end."  
        Musing, in an attempt to find a way around being apart, she suggested, "What if I came with you and bade Arya govern in my absence?"  
        "Sansa..." Tyrion gazed at her sadly. _You know you can't._  
        "She's a touch crass," she said, trying to talk herself into believing that it could work, that the Wildling of Winterfell, as the locals were so sweetly calling her, could rule for a time, "but perhaps it would be wise for her to..." Tyrion took her hand and kissed it. "No, I suppose not." He had to go. He had to go and she couldn't follow. It would never work that way. Sansa traced her thumb lightly around the edge of the still-too-fresh bruise on his head and pursed her lips.   
        "I appreciate your concern, but you needn't protect me. I can take care of myself, but I won't have to." He wanted nothing more, at the moment, than to calm her nerves. "I don't often find myself in these types of predicaments." _Liar_ , his brain hissed. _How many times have you found yourself trapped with nothing but your charm and wit to aid you?_ _She's seen the scars. You're not fooling her._  
        Trailing her hand down his face, she played her fingers through his beard. "I know that. I do. Nevertheless..." she said, actively choosing to accept his bravado, "consider me selfish. Pretend that I react not to protect you, but to keep you." She looked straight into his eyes, as though it would grant her some insight into his choosing to work alongside her even now. "I still don't trust her."  
        The ease of his wife's admission chilled him. She was so sure. He'd always considered himself to be a good judge of character, but the last few years had proved him wrong time and time again, whereas hers had been astute every time. "Sansa, I don't know what could possibly make you trust her. Your assessment of her has been nothing short of accurate." _He could still feel the way his stomach turned while he begged her to spare the city if the bells should ring. There was the longest stillness of his life when he stared at her, pleading, as the bells rang and she decided what to do._ "I do believe that had Jaime not reached Cersei in time, Daenerys would have burned the city to the ground." _All of her advisors cried out their advice, save one. All Jon had to do was say her name and she seemed to calm, landing Drogon and calling off the troops. And he could breathe again._ "Jon has proven to be a steeling influence on her. Daenerys has been an emboldening one on him. They balance each other. They trust each other." _For whatever that was worth. Sometimes, Tyrion wondered if the man indeed knew nothing._ "I fully understand why you don't. I'd understand you not trusting anyone."  
        "I trust _you_ ," Sansa said, as plainly as if she'd said, "My hair is red."  
        Tyrion smiled, knowing that to be the truth. He reached out, resting a hand on her waist. "Sansa, whether either of us likes it or not, I remain Hand of the Queen. That does not mean that my loyalties are divided. That means that it is my job to advise the Queen and make judgments in her best interest as her proxy."  
        "You haven't said that you trust her." Her mouth was drawn into a tight frown as she analyzed his words, unblinking.  
        "I haven't," he sighed.  
        "Do you not?"  
        Tyrion looked down. He had hoped to avoid this question as he just wasn't sure. "It's not as simple as that. Trust is not something I do, most often." He paused, thoughtfully. _What is exactly it that you do, then? And why do it?_ he asked himself. "I advise so that the people may trust, but I know better. I've seen the worst and I just know that people aren't always as they seem whatever that may mean."  
        "How can you advise one who you don't trust?" she asked, seeing right through him as she always had. "She frightens you."  
        "My brother killed her father. Her claim to the throne and the injustices she suffered have been in direct response to that." Sansa adjusted herself, clasping her hands together and casting him a look he knew all too well. _Aaand?_ He appraised Sansa, teasingly. "Come to think of it, it may be for the best that my wife does not deign to befriend the Queen. That might not bode well for me given the striking similarities in their narratives." He rested his chin in his hand in faux contemplation.  
        The slightest suggestion of mirth twinkled in Sansa's eyes as she quirked an eyebrow. "Do I frighten you?" In the momentary pause with which Tyrion formed his answer, she realized that, maybe- _just maybe_ , she didn't want to know the truth. _Tyrion, if your answer is yes, by all means, lie to me. Lie to me and I swear I'll believe it._  
        Playfulness gave way to a genuine softness. "No. No, Sansa, you amaze me. Your strength does not inspire fear. It inspires courage. Sansa," he sat up, taking her face in his hands, "you are a phenomenon. You allow me to show weakness. I tremble before you in awe." His touch grazed down her neck and across the barest piece of skin exposed above her dress. "I am unworthy of the Goddess." Sansa rolled her eyes at the comparison and wild overstatement. "Yet, you empower me. There are thoughts, Sansa, so many thoughts..." Tyrion caught his wife's gaze and smiled, his softness morphing into a drive that had Sansa's complete attention. "desires..." He traced her delicate curves with his fingertips until he reached her legs, grabbing a fistful of her skirts, "needs." Sansa bit her lip and reached for his hand, moving it and the rumpled fabric up to allow him the access she so desperately wished to grant him. "Things which know no name," Tyrion growled, suddenly all lion and Sansa was captivated. "I have always been a capable man but with you..." His voice trailed off. "I feel unstoppable." He repositioned himself between her legs, never before so grateful for the overwhelming amount of layers Highborn Ladies wear, especially in Winter, as it granted him time to bask in the fact that he is finally, after all this time, showing Sansa that he is a more than capable bedfellow... and he cannot decide where to start.  
        Overcome with lust, Sansa hardly noticed how readily her body responded. Her hands reached hungrily for Tyrion; to touch whatever part of him she could manage first, landing on his strong bicep and grasping in desperation. "Then, don't stop," she urged. He grazed his palms up her thighs, suddenly grasping her hips and pulling her toward him, aided by her silken underskirts. She gasped at the surprise. Her heart raced in anticipation. "Please, Tyrion, touch me. I want you." _You cannot leave me for who knows how long without giving me something to keep,_ she wanted to say.  
        "Sansa. Sansa, look at me," he said, voice low. Heat pooled in her core every time he said her name. She could do nothing but follow. He leaned forward, supporting himself above her on his right arm, his left hand still at her hip, fingers teasing. "I will stop at your command." Sansa's mouth hung open ever so slightly, begging to be kissed. "I want to please you only, this time." He moved back and began to trace tantalizing circles between her legs. "As a promise to you that I will return with haste." He seemed to be touching every available space around her womanhood except the one she expected. "I love you," he cooed, leaning closer, so close she could almost swear she could feel the vibrations of his deep, warm voice everywhere. "Allow me to worship my wife." Before Sansa knew it, Tyrion had begun to kiss and suck at her folds. Her hips hitched toward him instinctively. He slid one finger inside Sansa, finding her already slick with want, and began to stroke. Allowing his thumb to take over encircling her clit, he leaned forward again, leaning in close to her ear to whisper, punctuating his words with kisses all over her neck and chest, "You are the most incredible woman in the world. I was numb for so long, Sansa- alive but not really living. Thank you, for bringing me back to life. I am in your debt." She was positively radiant like this, lithe and fair and wanting for him. "And a Lannister always pays his debts."  
        Sansa's back arched as she began to lose control of herself. "Oh, please don't stop," she begged, voice growing louder with every movement. "I love you. Please," her words dissolved into a loud moan, surprising them both.   
        Bringing his mouth to hers, stifling her volume, Tyrion kissed her hard, slowing his fingers down. When she'd quieted, biting down on her own lip, he mused, picking up speed again and sliding a second finger inside. "That's very good. Very good, but I think, as it is still very much daytime, we may desire a bit of discretion."  
        "Don't tease," she whined, voice throaty and hoarse. Her chest grew hotter with each passing second. Sansa propped herself on her elbows and slid herself further down on his fingers, riding his palm. "Oh, I don't care who hears," she declared, gasping for breath when he reached a spot within her she didn't know existed that made her legs completely weak. Smiling when he noticed her reaction, he guided her to sit up and supported her at the small of her back, watching her as she chased her pleasure. "Idon'tcareIdon'tcareIdon'tcare! Oh, Gods, Tyrion," voice in a near shout, lacing her fingers in the curls at the nape of his neck. She kissed him hard. He smiled into her mouth knowing that her wanton responses were all for him. "Please, I need to..." Sansa didn't have words for what she needed. She had never felt this before. "I need you," she panted.  
        Luckily for Sansa, Tyrion understood all-too-well what she was crying out for. "Is that so?" he asked devilishly, inserting a third finger and trying very hard not to imagine what it would be like when she finally agreed to let this happen all at once, their naked forms entwined finally after all this time as they had always been meant to. Tyrion changed the rhythm of his movements and all of the tension mounted in Sansa's body came pulsing around her in a rush of pure ecstasy with an indecent cry.   
        "Ah, that's..." she stammered, folding against her husband as she tried to find her words. The world began to come back into focus, and when as it did, the first thought Sansa could find was "I love you," repeated soft, like a prayer meant only for them. Her hands still trembled as she fought to catch her breath, trying to focus on him. She pressed her lips to his neck. If his trip became an extended one, she wanted to be able to go back to this moment and relive it.   
        Tyrion laid Sansa back across the bed, moved from between and adjusted her skirts back down over her legs, now hanging off the edge of the bed. He propped himself on his right elbow next to her, sucking her wetness off his fingers. She leaned over and kissed him, tasting herself on his lips. For the briefest of instants, she entertained the idea of surrendering herself to him completely, already eager to be with him in such a way again, but she decided against it. _He'll be back,_ she thought. _Let's leave it there for now so that there's more to explore when he returns._  
        The couple cleaned up and sorted themselves out before heading to supper. They sat down, finding Brienne, Gendry, Arya, and Bran already eating. They sat awkwardly, awaiting the judgment. Tyrion rested his hand at the small of Sansa's back, not ready to break the intimacy of their private moment.   
        "We didn't expect to see you," Brienne said, looking between the two, and bouncing Jamie on her knee.  
Arya took an unladylike bite of her lamb and said, mouth still full, "Yeah, I mean, I thought Sansa'd already come..."  
Tyrion covered his mouth with his hand to stifle a laugh, impressed with her wit but not wanting to insult Sansa should she not appreciate the humor. "Is that the best you've got?" Sansa asked. Before anyone could input, she added, "I know I can take my licks, can she?" She looked at Gendry with a raised eyebrow and the Blacksmith's cheeks burned scarlet before the six of them dissolved into laughter.   
        Dinner became the most raucous dirty joke competition Sansa'd ever been privy to. All things considered, it should have been expected; A widowed ladyknight, an orphaned Bastard-Turned-Lord blacksmith who was sleeping with her little sister, the Wildling of Winterfell, the three-eyed-raven, the Ice Queen In The North and her formerly debaucherous imp husband. _Add in walk into a tavern and you're already on your way,_ she'd mentioned, prompting Tyrion's oft-lamented 'Jackass and a Honeycomb' story. After all their adventures, they had quite a colorful array of improper repartee.   
        Catching a wistful smile from Brienne, he couldn't help but laugh. "The last time you and I were involved in a conversation like this in this very room..."  
        "Likely led to the creation of this little one," Brienne nodded, affirming the reasoning behind her gaze.  
        He offered a tip of his goblet in a mock toast. "Well, I'm glad to have been of service to the blushing young bride."  
        "Maybe it'll have the same luck this time," she replied offering the same gesture to Sansa who simply laughed.  
        Amused by the memory so fresh in his mind, Tyrion laughed into his cup, sliding his hand across Sansa's back. "I don't think it works that way."  
        "What's that supposed to mean?" Gendry asked, a look of genuine confusion spreading across his face.   
        "Words aren't the only good use for a tongue," Sansa admitted, leaning back into Tyrion's arm, taken aback by his innocence. She glanced to Arya for assistance.  
        Raising her hands in exaggerated defeat, she cupped Gendry's face and kissed him. She patted him gently on the jaw, adding "We'll talk about it later."  
        Even Bran laughed, which made it all the more fun for Sansa and Arya. It was almost like old times. "There's still a seventeen-year-old boy in me," he remarked causing a barrage of remarks from the others. Unsurprisingly, Sansa could certainly hold her own. They'd all forgotten how nice it was to laugh openly.  
        Tyrion dreaded the dawn even more.

        When the dawn arrived and Lord Tyrion's bags had already been taken to his carriage, it was time for him to leave. Lady Sansa stood at the foot of their bed with tears in her eyes. She had meant to see him to the gate, but she couldn't seem to bring herself to move. "I can't watch you go," she said, voice breaking with tears.  
        Tyrion hung his head. "I had thought as much," he turned from the door and returned to his wife, looking up at her. He took both of her hands in his. "I love you."  
        Sansa bent down to kiss him, ignoring the tears streaming down her face. "I love you," she answered, kissing him even more passionately the second time. "Please, come back soon." She wove her fingers into his hair and kissed him, desperately now.  
        "As soon as I can," he answered. Tyrion turned back for the door, grabbed his cloak, and walked straight for the gate. He knew that if he stole another glance at his wife, it would only make things harder. This was hard enough already.  
        At day's end, as the first night of his absence was truly upon her, she laid in bed and tossed and turned. Eventually, she pulled his pillow to her close and breathed deeply. If she tried hard enough, maybe she could invent a heartbeat for it in her head...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a breath. Please don't hate me. Remember, my writing was developed largely in a fandom where one of my favorite ships often gets tagged with "OTP: I asked her to marry me and a truck came out of nowhere" and 3 out of 4 people in my other two faves are dead... so sometimes??? I write an entire fic and then go... this is roughly the equivalent of one season of a show and this is how you treat your arc? 
> 
> Short answer: Yes. Yes, it is.  
> Long answer: I love you guys a lot and I hope you don't mind the emotional torture that's gonna happen again in coming chapters. :)


	9. the way i'm drinking you down like i wanna drown

> Touch me, all silent. Just try it.   
> Tell me, please, all is forgiven.   
> Now, there, that’s it. God, that’s heaven.  
> Consume my wine. Consume my mind.   
> I’ll tell you how, how the winds sigh.  
>  -Touch Me, Spring Awakening

        Winterfell found itself buried in another two-feet of snow in the first two weeks of Lord Tyrion's absence. Lady Sansa wished she could find it calming as she always had, but this snow left her uneasy. Her Lord Husband was currently in Laithenstone, a days trip away, but having grown up in Winterfell, Sansa knew well that it was a drafty old castle with no heat source past the fireplaces.   
        A girl of thirteen ran her way through a long stone corridor. She panted, gripping the brown parchment wrapped package tightly in her fingers. She reached her Lady's door and brushed the dust from her skirts. "Milady, a package arrived by courier from the Reach." The girl was newly hired into the service of the Lords and Ladies of Winterfell. She was sweet enough but drove Arya up a wall with her constant breathlessness and Sansa thought she was too eager to please. Still, her father had died during the long night and neither of the Stark ladies had the heart to sack her.  
        Evenly, Sansa answered, "Thank you, Taibita." The girl dropped the package into Sansa's hands and sped off.  
        "I think we frighten her." Arya was sat with her heels up onto her sister's bed, rocking the high winged chair back and forth, thoroughly entertained by the thought, then gestured to the parcel Sansa carefully turned in her hands. "What's that?" When her sister made no move to open it, she took matters into her own hands, just as she had during Merry celebrations and namedays as a child. _Only no one would dare present this to a child..._ Arya lifted a delicate garment from the small package and eyed it curiously. "How long has he been gone?" She'd heard about this type of thing but never seen one.   
        Sansa surveyed her sister, awaiting a true reaction. Surely the fact that Sansa was married now would spare her from her sister's chides at the purchase of a pretty, frilly little thing with no practical wear. Finally, she spoke. "Nearly a fortnight," she groaned, meaning to snatch the unmentionable.  
        Eyes widening, knowing just how long deliveries were taking this winter, Arya teased, "You ordered that even _before_ , then!"  
        "Shut up, Arya," the older Stark girl groaned, swiping at her sister's hand.  
        A devilish grin crossed Arya's face. "Three months, I'd wager." She finally held the item out fully in front of both of them, appraising it in full.  
        _"Shut up, Arya!"_ she squealed as her sister laughed, sounding very much like the young girls who'd left their home so many years before.  
        Arya stroked the stitching carefully. She'd never cared much for the needlework, not in the way Sansa did, but she could still admire the hard work. She'd never had the patient or talent for it. Still, there was something to be said for a little luxury. "Anyone with eyes knows Dornish lace but... where was it made? The Reach?" She asked. It was clearly of Southern design; No northern seamstress would bother to make such a short slip and out of a fabric that offered no insulation from the cold.  
Sansa was taken aback. She seemed genuinely interested. "Arya..." she said, voiced tinged with warning. _If you're going to mock me..._   
        "And in your house Crimson... a thoughtful touch, Lady Lannister" she said, arching her eyebrow suggestively. Truthfully, she was impressed. When she'd initially told her she'd sent for Tyrion, Arya had balked. She made it seem like it was merely political, as a comfort to her she supposed. "You brought him here knowing just what you wanted, completely unaware of his feelings." It seemed they both took to gambling, even if it wasn't the same methods. "Did you send the raven for purchase at the same time you sent for your Lord Husband." Sansa nodded, smiling bashfully. "You did? How does it work then?"   
        Sansa demonstrated on herself. She drew a line at the top of her ribcage with her fingers. "The wire goes here, working with the just above alleviating the need of a corset," gesturing vaguely to her sides, simulating how they did much the same, "freeing the body for other activities." She rolled her eyes with a laugh. It felt silly, still, to be regaining such frivolity and joy, especially with such ease. She thought back to the frightened girl of not-yet-sixteen, unwillingly a bride, whose unwilling husband had aligned himself to the Night's Watch's vows of chastity on their wedding night in gallant protection of her honor. _What if I never want you to?_ She smiled privately at the thought. _Oh, you sweet summer child. You will._   
        Mischief played at Arya's mind. "Would it not bear the same to command someone to just walk around holding them up on display for you," she asked, lurching out of her chair and landing in her sister's lap playfully and leaving the garment draped over the arm, unaware that the door had opened across the room. "Behold, Lord Husband," she proclaimed, putting her hands on her sister in the same place Sansa'd gestured, "the greatest tits in all the land and only for you!"  
        "Arya!" Sansa yelped, laughing and covering her face with her hands.  
        The yet unseen figure in the doorway crossed their arms, laughing silently, and watched the Ladies of Winterfell playfight.  
        She tickled her sister's ribs forcefully as she'd done when they were children, a playful torture meant for extracting secrets. "So, are we planning a trip to Laithenstone then?" she asked, both laughing.  
        She could hardly breathe for the fit of giggles, swatting at her attacker lightly, "I swear to the seven, Arya..." she threatened emptily, shoving her little sister from atop her.  
         "What have I come home to?" came a man's voice from the doorway, low and thoroughly amused.   
        Both of the women's heads shot up at the intrusion. Sansa said nothing, mouth hanging open as she stared. _Tyrion_. Her husband stood leaning against the door frame, entertained thoroughly by their antics.  
        "Nothing unusual for you, I suppose," Arya laughed, tone playfully acidic, as she climbed off the bed and moved to greet her brother-in-law.  
        "Rather tame, actually" Tyrion laughed, welcoming her friendly hug, eyes still locked on his wife who seemed paralyzed with the shock of his unannounced presence.  
        "What brings you back?"   
        He sighed, tired. "We adjourned for some time. Tensions had risen and no one would budge. We decided to reconvene after 3 nights time." He crossed to the bed, resting his hands on the edge. "I made haste for home. For you."   
        Sansa's mind raced. 3 nights time. That gives us a day. One beautiful, glorious... torturous, too-short day. A feast for the starving. She had wished nothing more than to gorge herself on him for weeks. Still, she found herself frozen to the spot.  
        Eyeing her curiously, Arya moved back to her sister, waving a hand in front of her face. "Sansa? Sansa, are you in there?" She goaded her, speaking very slowly. "This is Tyrion... Your husband?" She nodded sarcastically, exaggerating as though trying to make a speaker of High Valyrian understand the Common Tongue. She stood behind Tyrion, pushing him forward slightly. He batted her hands away, with a smirk, like the little gnat she was playing at the moment. "Do you remember him?" The invasion of personal space snapped Sansa back to reality. His presence washed over her and she crashed into him, kissing him hard. "Guess so. I'll just..." Arya fumbled, retreating to the hall as quickly as she could, thrown off by her sister's sudden and drastic switch. She shivered the sight from her head and fled for the reprieve of the training yard.  
        The Lord and Lady of Winterfell drank each other in. Tyrion moved onto the bed and Sansa moved ever closer to him. She dug her fists into his hair territorially. He groaned in response, clutching the small of her back.  
        "So, I see you didn't miss me," he said with a breathless laugh when they finally broke the kiss. His palm caressed the side of her face. He couldn't bring himself to look away from her, his wife. _Could it be that she is more beautiful than I remember?_  
        "Not in the slightest," she lied, smiling a wicked little smile that Tyrion had never seen before. His heart skipped a beat. Sansa placed a hand to his neck and pulled him in closer, faces a hairsbreadth apart. "Welcome home." She kissed him again, slower and gentler this time. She _liked_ kissing, she thought. She appreciated the closeness it brought them. She reveled in how effortless it was between them; as natural as anything she could imagine being. More than anything, though, she _loved_ kissing _him_.   
        Tyrion felt a familiar stir. They needed to slow down. He couldn't lose control of himself. "We rode through the night," he panted. "I couldn't bear it knowing I could be here. Sansa," he said, voice driving her wild. He pulled back, pushing her disheveled hair from in front of her eyes, "you understand that I'm only here through tomorrow."  
        Frenzy dying off into something much more calm and sure, Sansa nodded. "So, we'll make the most of it. I want you, Tyrion," she said, voice lacking any trepidation, laying special emphasis on the difference of her want from any time it had been uttered previously. She rested her forehead against his. "More than I've ever wanted anything." She brought his palm flat to her chest, heart still racing. _Would it ever stop?_ He trailed his hand to her neck, mimicking her posture entirely. "Your watch is ended, Tyrion." Her words dripped with all the sentiment either had ever dreamed this moment would have.  
        He found his eyes slightly wet, despite himself. Knowing what his wife had been through, he never would have blamed her if she never wanted this. "Are you certain," he asked, unmoving.  
        She kissed him once again, "Absolutely certain," she agreed and stood up from the bed, turning her back to him. She gestured for him to help undo the buttons up the back of her dress.   
        In his assistance, Tyrion found himself gazing at his wife. She was suddenly very sure and he was the one with tens of thousands of questions he wouldn't let himself ask.  He gazed at her neck, hair pulled to the side, and the expanse of her back and shoulders, now free from the confines of her dress, now heaped around her bare feet on the floor. He pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades and her breath hitched, startled. She turned around to face him and dropped her slip to the floor as well.   
        Tyrion moved to caress her skin. His palms explored from her hips and up her stomach to the curve of her breasts. He thumbed lightly at the nipples, causing her head to drop back.   
        Sansa closed her eyes. What was _taking_ him so long? She reached out to him, undoing his vest and sliding it off. "I know what I like, Sansa," he said carefully, removing his tunic as well. "It's time to find out what you like." Having never given any thought to the fact that what she liked mattered prior to their dalliance the night before he left, she felt her heart flutter at the mere suggestion of her pleasure.  
        Guiding Sansa back onto the bed, he knelt beside her, proceeding to run his mouth all over her body. Places she'd never expected to be kissed filled her with all sorts of sensations. When he sucked at the base of her neck, it felt as though he was moving her like a marionette by her heartstrings alone. A nip at her shoulder sent chills like the first winds of Winter. His breath on her chest was as warm as the Summer sun. When he brought his lips to a stretch of skin at the lowest part of her belly, her skin prickled with shock.   
        She longed to do some exploring of her own. Sansa led Tyrion back to her until they were face to face. She hooked her long legs around between his, steadying his slight hips between her knees. "Stay here," she urged. "Let me?" She reached a curious hand to his back. Her smallest of movements seemed to cause similar reactions in him. The way she dug her fingernails into the small of his back caused his mouth to fall into a perfectly relaxed 'o'. A light suck on the space below his ear, behind his bearded jaw, made him groan deliciously. Her soft hands in the front of his pants... _Well,_ she thought. The hardness of his length after such little time and no direct contact until that point was startling. _He is that ready,_ she wondered, _and hasn't moved to ease himself once?_ A new pulsing started at her core and Sansa's instincts began to take over.   
        Chest glistening with sweat, Tyrion leaned up, steadying himself on his knees. She was heavenly. He took in every inch of her. He reached to brush her sex-tousled hair from in front of her beautiful eyes. He kissed his way down her arm. His magnificent wife was laid out before him, writhing against him in growing desperation, her womanhood pink and wet and ready for him. He traced circles around the sensitive area at the top of her folds, before trailing his fingers to her entrance. He slid in one finger, then two, ensuring that she was well ready for his cock.  
        Growing impatient, Sansa slid his pants to his knees. "Please, Tyrion," she asked. He smiled, finally giving in to his own urges. He guided his member into her, slowly at first, making sure that she was not in pain. Her face showed only arousal, so he continued on.  
        Sansa couldn't look away. She hardly wanted to blink. The image of Tyrion over her was something she had wanted for some time and she'd be damned if she was going to miss a second of it. His steady work and even thrusts in time with the motion of her hips drove her wild, yet unlike before she stayed much more silent. This time was different. It was more intimate. This was _primal_. As their bodies entwined, the blush she so often felt on her face seemed now to inhabit her whole body.  
        But she wasn't embarrassed. Not even a little bit. An insatiable warmth crept over her as that same feeling from before reemerged. She entangled her fingers in his hair and brought his mouth crashing willingly against her breasts. She longed to touch every part of him and for him to do the same to her, but that was not where she wanted that mouth. She adjusted her position and tried again, this time bringing their mouths together in a desperate, wet kiss. She moaned into the mouth, biting at his lower lip. Beginning to reach her climax, Sansa pulled her husband as close as she could.  
        Sensing her urgency as her core began to throb around him, he began to thrust faster and harder with her motions. He returned his fingers to her clit and Sansa's orgasm painted pure ecstasy over her normally restrained face. The sight of her was too much for Tyrion to keep his restraint and he came to a release within her as she rode out the end of her wave.   
        Both still coming up breathless, Tyrion rested atop his wife, finding himself speechless as well, a feat seldom reached for him, especially in the bedroom. Everything about this was different.   
        Sansa swallowed hard, reveling in the stillness, finally coming to grips with reality and feeling the trembling in her legs subside. She stroked his sweat-drenched hair absently, feeling the countdown until his impending departure begin anew.  
  
        Newfound affection swept Sansa and she found herself incapable of giving a whit if the whole of the Seven Kingdoms saw how absolutely and helplessly in love she was with her husband. This particular reunion was so brief that it hardly mattered to her. Tyrion was as accepting of her demonstrations as ever, making it clear that he was not interested in what anyone else had to say. They were married, they were together and, against all odds leading them to this point, they were happy. They leaned into one another, whispering and laughing as though entirely alone.  
        Largely unhappy, however, were their dinner companions. Their inability to keep their eyes- and hands- off of one another was something that contrasted their usual public behavior so strongly that one such person found themselves rather put off their dinner. "This is disturbing," declared Gendry, looking at Bran, who seemed to look right through his sister and her husband. He set down his goblet with a thunk and turned his attention to Arya, draping his arm over the back of her chair. She elbowed it right off again.  
        Brienne smiled warmly, choosing to focus instead on her daughter's babbling. "I think it's sweet," she said, pointedly not looking at Sansa or Tyrion.  
        Arya groaned, focusing too on the baby. "You're not immune to Lannister charms."  
        "No, I suppose not," the older woman answered, trying not to reveal the sting her comment left.  
        Realizing what she'd said, she mouthed up at her "Sorry."  
        "It's true," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "And your poor Baratheon is useless against Stark prowess."  
        Arya smiled. "That is true." Gendry rubbed his leg against hers gently and she nudged it away.  
        Defeated, he poured himself another drink. "So, it seems, is that Lannister."  
        "We can hear you, you know?" Tyrion asked, looking at Gendry out of the corner of his eye.  
        "We weren't sure," he muttered, downing his cup and filling it again. Tyrion noted his moping and wondered what was behind it, unsure of whether or not their relationship was friendly enough to inquire.  
        Brienne eyed the couple curiously. "Why did you choose to take supper with us? We all would have understood."  
        "I've been in a carriage for a day," Tyrion answered, toying with Sansa's hair as he spoke, "I've eaten every meal with for weeks with men who are less than friendly, either to myself or to Jon or both, and either way find themselves more apt to scream at one another than talk reasonably because we are there." He grew silent before continuing. "Pleasant company is apparently hard to come by at Laithenstone." He was lonely. Surely he had Jon to talk to, and their work to keep him busy, but that wasn't the same. All his life, he'd been content with shallow acquaintances and business transactions, but now that he knew what life was like with people who he cared about, who truly cared for in return, he couldn't imagine returning to that lifestyle.  
        Realizing she hadn't even bothered to ask about his work, Sansa suddenly felt very guilty, "How is Jon?" she asked, attempting to realign herself with the conversation.  
        Tyrion sighed, choosing his words deliberately. "Well. Unflappable in his integrity and unyielding in his unawareness, as always." _Stupid and stubborn._  
        "Why did he not return with you?" Arya asked.  
        "He rode North, having arranged a meeting with old friends," Tyrion answered, speaking of the tribes North of the Wall. "He means to visit when we are through before he returns to the Queen."  
        Sansa worried at a piece of skin around her thumb, not wanting to ask the next natural question. Noting her reluctance, Brienne asked in her stead. "Have you any idea when that will be?" The Lady smiled a wordless thanks.  
        "I can only hope that we shall return from our recess refreshed and more willing to work with one another, and I should find myself in a carriage again before the night's out," he mused, staring into his wine. He could certainly dream. The truth was, the people of Laithenstone were none-too-happy with the presence of the Dragon Cunt's Lackies, as they were now so thoughtfully called. It wasn't as though they were seeking some obscene gesture of fealty. He couldn't for the life of him suss out their motivation for withholding. There was a time, the complexity of their motivation would have thrilled him, but he had grown bored of self-righteous brutes.  
        "Is that likely?" Brienne asked, once again sparing Sansa the perceived indignity.  
        "Rather not, but I like to think that it may happen," he replied, sensing his wife's distress at the line of questioning. "But enough about that, how are things here?" The conversation roared to life in swirls of stories of the rebuilding of the greenhouses and differences of opinions with the stone masons.  
        Still, Bran remained there only in body. His mind was clearly elsewhere with his eyes locked on Sansa, gaze seeming to bore through her.  
        "You've been especially quiet tonight," Gendry mentioned after dinner, as he and Arya escorted him back to his bedchamber.  
        Unblinking, he simply said "Sometimes, it is easier for me to remain silent. There are things the Three-Eyed Raven knows that Brandon Stark should not, especially with regards to dinner conversation with his family."  
        Taking a few steps ahead to get a good look at her brother, Arya quipped, "You know, that was the droll version of a child dancing around, exclaiming 'I know something you don't know.'" Bran didn't answer. "You can still have conversations, can't you?" she asked.  
        "An interesting choice of metaphor," the Three-Eyed Raven noted, "but are we not having one now?"  
        Arya stopped dead in her tracks, fuming. "No. No, I think not." Arya turned the opposite way from the men and stormed away.  
        "Fat lot of help you are," Gendry groaned. What had gotten into her today? "Your sisters are impossible. The pair of them."  
        "As well I know."

        Sansa and Tyrion reached their chamber early that evening and readied for bed. "You look exhausted," Tyrion noted as Sansa slid under the covers. He finished trimming his beard and eyed her in the mirror.  
        "Divine exhaustion," she sighed, laying back against the pillows, allowing herself to admit that she was incredibly tired and grateful to be able to retire early in the hopes that, perhaps, she may sleep soundly. "I've hardly slept since you left. I couldn't bring my mind to rest. When I finally fell asleep, the nightmares..." she stared down at her hands again, losing herself to thought. "I decided that it was probably for the best that I didn't bother until I could no longer help it."  
        Turning to his wife, Tyrion grew concerned, silently berating himself for not noticing earlier. "So, you haven't had a truly good night's sleep in a fortnight?" he asked gently, climbing into bed himself.   
        She yawned. A hesitant "I suppose" falling from her lips.  
        Tyrion tutted, drawing her close to him. "Come here. Rest," he cooed. Sansa couldn't resist. After a few deep breaths against his chest, the beating of his heart lulled her to sleep. He kissed the top of her head and drifted off himself.

        The sun broke in through the curtains, waking the couple, having remained in the same entangled position all night. "Good morning," Tyrion said, voice still gruff with sleep.  
        "It is," Sansa replied, calmer than she'd woken in weeks.  
        Tyrion watched her stretch, readying herself to rise. He hugged her tight, willing her to stay there just a few minutes more. "I've missed you. I don't think I told you that enough yesterday."  
        She shook her head, fingers trailing across his bicep lazily. "I think I missed you more. I don't like sleeping alone anymore."  
        "No, it's certainly less than preferable," he agreed.  
        Spying a swath of red lace on the chair, a devious smile found its way to Sansa's lips. "I have a surprise for you for later," she sing-songed.  
        "Do you?" Tyrion mimicked.  
        "I do," Sansa confirmed, proud of herself. "But, it does mean that you cannot watch me dress this morning," he pouted at her as she stood up, aiming to retreat behind the privacy screen. "You have to spend all day wondering," she teased.   
        Tyrion gripped her wrist and pulled her back into the bed with a flounce. "What have you done with my wife?" he asked, growling playfully and nipping at her jawline.  
        "I need to give you a reason to keep coming home, don't I?" she asked, voice teeming with suggestions.  
        "My love, you are reason enough."  
        Sansa rose again, this time reaching her destination. "Nevertheless..." she cooed, pulling the chair with the garment behind the screen with her.

        As they made their way from breakfast to court, Sansa found herself a few steps ahead of Tyrion, each talking to a member of the court individually. When the two much elder men departed, Sansa maintained her stride, Tyrion a few steps behind. "Are you watching as I walk, My Lord?" she asked, voice honeyed. She knew just how good she looked in this dress; a thin charcoal grey skirt that clung to her curves, shaping up into a tight fitted black bodice with jeweled buttons that ran to the daring neckline. Simple for the Lady of one of the Great Houses, surely, but it was one of her favorites  
        "One of the few advantages in my shortcomings, I've found, is that such beauty is right before my very eyes," Tyrion stated plainly, playing along with her coy game, still worried about her lack of sleep. He knew that, often, insomnia played with one's mental state. Still, he was never going to turn down the opportunity to flirt with his gorgeous wife. "It has made me quite the pygophile and frankly... your ass is a wonderment."  
        "Is that so?" she asked, falling back into step with him. "You sound very much like the man I married."  
        Beaming, Tyrion reached his hand up and grazed his hand across her bottom, smacking it lightly before resting it there. "He's a lucky man."  
        "And I'm a very lucky woman," she responded, placing her hand over his.

        Before their Counsel meeting began for the day, Tyrion sought out Lady Arya. "May I have a word in private?" he asked, begging her pardon.  
        She eyed him curiously, hating the pretense of formality with her family. "Of course, My Lord. Do excuse us, please," she said to the bannermen she had been speaking, grateful to be rid of their prattle.   
        Arya followed him into a small study off the great hall where they were to convene that day. "She hasn't slept?" he asked, sitting in his chair. Arya sat on the table next to him, feet crossed under her.  
        "No," she sighed, clearly worried too and more than prepared for this conversation. "And she won't take any remedies for it. She claims that they worsen the nightmares. She doesn't like to be trapped there."  
         Tyrion leaned back, thinking. "I suppose that makes sense."  
         "She also forbade us all from telling you, fearing that you would run to her side, inevitably delaying your overall return, nevermind fearing the Queen's wrath should she find out you abandoned your post." Arya moved over a hair so she was looking her brother-in-law straight in the eye. "Tyrion, she is taken care of here. We do what we can, but she's a grown woman."  
        He nodded sadly. "I know. Just..." he thought to all of the things that had happened to her. Things that, as her husband, he was sworn to protect her from. "I couldn't save her. I promised her that I would keep her safe." He felt the sting of tears at his eyes and forbade them from breaking.  
        "Neither could I," Arya said. "Sure, I was ten when our father died and all seven hells broke loose, but even after... I didn't know what happened to her, but every night, I thought to myself that I would find my silly big sister and save her from whatever danger she found herself in. We both dreamed of knights as little girls. She wanted to find one. I wanted to become one." The warrior girl smiled. They'd both achieved those dreams, hadn't they? "But, that is in the past, and she doesn't need to be sheltered." Noting the doorknob turning, she transitioned into the first story that came to mind that she thought would key Tyrion into the necessary change of topic. "And I thought he had me.  He said something about lowborn girls saying m'lord, not my lord and how if I was _going to pose as a commoner, do it properly_." Her voice, thanks to her days with the faceless men, became so much Tywin Lannister that Tyrion's blood ran cold. "So, I told him some bullshit story about how my mother served some lord or other and taught me to speak proper..." she laughed. Seeing the expression on his face, she noted that she'd have to remember to tell Tyrion all about her brief stint as a servant to Tywin Lannister. "He didn't buy it for a minute."  
        He laughed along, hearing the footsteps to his side. "No, I suppose he wouldn't have."  
        "He did tell me I was too smart for my own good," she said, hopping off the table and taking her seat.  
        Tyrion smiled. And how right that is. "He used to tell me that as well, before he threatened to defenestrate me."  
        "A family habit, I see," Bran mentioned, as Maester Ayn guided him in, "One I hope you don't possess as well."   
        Sansa immediately followed the men in, dragging her fingers across Tyrion's shoulders as she joined the table. "My Lady, I am a happily married man," he whispered in faux admonishment.  
        "Good," she cooed before bringing the meeting to a start. "Shall we begin?"

         The day continued uneventfully. Tyrion found himself studying the remains of the plans for Winterfell's spring-heated walls, wondering how difficult it would be to manufacture something similar as a gesture for the people of Laithenstone. Eventually, he decided that it was impossible to discern without a full blueprint. He left the library in a huff and wandered off for the Great Hall.   
        From out of nowhere, a hand caught his and dragged him into a secluded turret. Sansa. She knelt before him, kissing him passionately. "Sansa-" he said, breaking the kiss and peering into the hall. He caressed his wife's cheek and looked deeply into her eyes. "People are going to talk."  
        "You came back for one day. They know why. I heard some kitchen girls gossiping like hens about the nature of our relationship," she rolled her eyes at their theories. "They're already talking. Let them talk." Her heartbeat quickened as, this time, he kissed her.

          _Finally_. Sansa sank into the window seat with a gracious smile, thankful to be off her feet at the end of the day. She winced in pain as she removed one boot, a whimper escaping. _Not the best idea_ , she conceded, _to attempt brand new boots on the day you decide to play at coquettish advances with your husband._ She let out a small, relieved sigh as she rubbed at the chafing above her heel. Now for the other one. She took a breath and started on the buttons.  
         "Allow me," Tyrion offered as he entered the room, vest already mostly off, he tossed it to the side and proceeded to take over for her.  
         "New boots. One of life's little agonies, I suppose," she explained. He started massaging her sore feet and ankles, eliciting a low moan. "And you are very, very good at that," she said again.   
        _Where have I heard that before_ , he asked himself, a satisfied grin on his face. "When did you become such a tease?" he asked, hoping that her aforementioned 'surprise' wouldn't be too far away now.  
        "Are you not enjoying it?" she asked, earnestly, concerned she'd gone too far.  
        He guffawed. "I'm enjoying it very much..." he admitted. _Maybe too much._ "But one night and you're suddenly a minx?"  
        "No. Not exactly," she corrected, a little sad that he seemed to be missing the point. "I learned a long time ago that weaponizing sexuality was never something I wanted to do. I'm not trying to manipulate you. I've seen how that's done. Perhaps I had to do so once or twice. That is not what this is." She shook her head, grabbing his hands and gesturing for him to sit beside her. "I also know firsthand just how cold a lonely Northern night can be. Since you have to away again, I wanted to give you more than enough coal to keep the home fires burning."  
        Tyrion raised an eyebrow. _Home fires burning_? That was a new one, even for him. "Is that your attempt at forming your own euphemism?" He removed his own shoes before leaning back into the seat.  
        She laughed, a little shocked that, even just this once, she had a turn of phrase for something indecent that he was unaware of. "No, that is indeed one we use." She kissed him tenderly, the day's forceful facade stripping away.  
        "Sansa..." he whispered. He had so many things he wanted to say. _Sansa, I love you. Sansa, I don't want to leave you again. Sansa, I hate being away from you. Sansa, I'm worried about you. Sansa, I'll be back as soon as I can. Sansa, please take care of yourself._ He couldn't manage one. All he could do is stare at the woman he loved.  
        She smiled a soft smile. "You've been a patient, patient man. I think you deserve your surprise now." She stood up, grateful for the buttons being located in the front of this dress. Her nimble fingers had them undone in a flash. She stepped out of it, tossing it on the chest behind her. Tyrion gawked, in awe of his beautiful wife. She shed her very Stark dress and revealed something that was altogether Lannister. Altogether his. The red lace left nothing to the imagination, not that he needed to imagine anything. He'd already committed her every outline to memory. "You can touch," she said, voice pure velvet, "if you like."   
        New to this though she may have been, Sansa had a way of leaving Tyrion absolutely stunned. Time, he knew, would not change that. It was as innate to her as any other part. "I just want to look. For a moment," he said. Oh, he _wanted_ to touch. But the sight of her in his oft-maligned house colors was something out of a dream.   
        He stood, walking circles around her. The southern garment certainly was a surprise. He knew, once, that his wife loved pretty, dainty things, but that had been the same girl who kept a flower granted to her by Ser Loras Tyrell pressed in a book on her nightstand. Even though she no longer entertained the frivolity of such things most often, Tyrion smiled at her exquisite taste.   
        Finally, he moved toward her, teasing her thigh with the edge, before directing her onto the bed, one finger hooked in the strap to keep her moving. He guided her back onto the pillows. "I admire your restraint," she said, truly impressed. She had expected to be ravished. Instead, he seemed to want to savor the moment. Sansa couldn't say that she was particularly offended by either outcome.   
        "Oh, my love, this is not restraint," he clarified. "This is... Wonderment." He slid his palm up her stomach, gaze never breaking from her body. "Selfishness." He kissed her chest, hard enough she thought it might leave a mark. _If it does_ , she thought, _it will be the most beautiful mark to have ever graced my skin._ "Pleasure." His voice deepened as he stroked her breasts, toying with her nipples and finding great joy as they grew hard. "Greed." Her heart hammered away as he leaned over top of her, kissing her possessively. "Lust." He moved to kiss her between her legs, sucking gently to punctuate every word. "I am a shameless, lecherous man, Sansa. And I have so many plans."   
        Sansa grasped desperately at the bedsheets. "So many plans, so little time," she said, voice a little sadder than she'd expected.  
        "For now," Tyrion assured, kissing his way back up to be as near her face as he could and letting his fingers take over where his mouth had so recently been. "Only for now." He had no intention of making his absence extend any longer than absolutely necessary. In fact, were it up to him, he'd tell the immovable bastards what they were going to do and that would be the last he'd hear of it. If it were up to him, he would be here, Lord of Winterfell at the Lady's side only. He'd help oversee the remainder of reconstruction. He'd counsel his Lady Wife as need be.   
        She tugged at the base of his shirt, untucking it and bidding him to allow for its removal. She leaned forward, kissing his neck and allowed her hands to trace his outline before moving to his pants. Sansa slipped her fingers within the waistband and shoved them down. She felt dazed, completely captivated by her Husband; His touch, the taste of his mouth, his focused movements, the way the scent of his books lingered on his hands well into the day. There was no call for wine when she found herself completely intoxicated by Tyrion.   
        In fairness, he was equally taken by the young woman. His attention was solely on her. As he moved between her legs, she felt the mounting tension within her rise.  
        "Follow me." He rolled over onto his back, crooking his finger to indicate his intention. "Often, it's better if you're on top." She smiled curiously, but following at his word, she did as he suggested, sliding herself over him. "Perfect," he purred. He grabbed at her supple bottom, giving it the lightest of taps.  
        They fell into a rhythm quickly, the bucking of her hips setting gyration to the rest of her body. Sansa moaned in response. "Oh, this is..." Her brain struggled to find words.  
        "Better?" He smiled, watching her full breasts bounce along with their motion. Every part of her responded deliciously. "Much more access for this," he said, leaning up, and pulling her face to meet his, kissing her breathlessly.  
        Sansa laced her fingers in Tyrion's, moving together with ecstasy. Her hair and the lace garment hung against him, tickling his skin, covering him in gooseflesh. He began to thrust harder, growing hungry for release.   
        His strokes began to hit the same insatiable spot that had driven her so wild previously. Her back arched, causing her to pull away from the kiss. Her hands began to tremble. She reached back, digging her fingers into his strong thighs for support. "There, oh, th..." she gasped, movements quickening. "Tyrion, kiss me," she begged. "Please, kiss..." her pleas trailed off into a throaty whine.   
        Tyrion wasn't letting her get off that easy. "I love the way you say my name, Sansa," he said, voice low, absolutely dripping in lust. "Say it again."  
         "Tyrion," she panted. "Oh Gods, Tyrion please." She leaned forward, grasping the headboard for stability, fearing her legs may give out. He leaned up and kissed her. Sansa kissed back desperately, sucking his bottom lip between hers, stifling her own cries from becoming screams as pleasure overtook her, finishing just before her Lord husband.  
        After she'd calmed some, Sansa moved back a bit, sitting between Tyrion's legs with hers draped over his thighs. She laced their fingers together, thinking about how well they fit together. Not just their hands. His ring on her finger, her head on his chest, his arms around her... All of that was true, but also their thoughts. Their memories. It was as though their whole lives were supposed to fit together.  
        Staring at his wife, lost in her own thoughts, Tyrion couldn't help but think to himself for the thousandth time since he arrived the night prior that he was, indeed, the luckiest man in the world. "I love you," he professed. It was strange, he thought, to be able to say that so freely. He felt like he said it all too often, but not nearly enough. Why shouldn't he say it as often as it crossed his mind.  
        She smiled, finally looking directly at him. Sansa leaned forward, kissing him tenderly before laying next to Tyrion, one leg still locked around his. "Not nearly as much as I love you," she replied, kissing him once more. They held each other for a long time, knowing well that they should sleep, but unable to give in, wanting to make every second of his visit count.


	10. like i wanna end me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR WARNING: THIS CHAPTER DEALS WITH THEMES OF SEXUAL ASSAULT WHICH TRIGGERS AN ONSLAUGHT OF FLASHBACKS, PANIC, DISSOCIATION AND ENDS ON A CLIFFHANGER.
> 
> I just want to make sure that you're all aware, but it's not particularly unlike the type of things that happen in canon, so uh. Onward!

If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied  
And illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs  
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks  
Then I'll follow you into the dark  
-I Will Follow You Into The Dark, Death Cab For Cutie

        Weeks went by and Lord Tyrion was still beholden to Laithenstone's plight. Sansa had found her sleep waning again, visits at night from the more-bright, more-shining ghosts of her past more menacing than anything else she could imagine. One chilly morning, she woke from her tortured slumber with a scream, still feeling the teeth of the dogs she had set on her late tormentor as they turned back to her, shredding her skin as he laughed mercilessly. She wrapped her arms around her middle and noticed long scratches from her own nails. Sitting out of bed, she retrieved a piece of pumice stone from her vanity drawer and moved to the seat at the window. She ground them down to a more manageable length as she stared into the darkness at the falling snow.  
        When the time came for her to rise for the day, some three hours later, she completed her morning rituals by rote, unfeeling and automatic. She broke her fast with her siblings, Arya the only one speaking for most of the morning. Noting the snow, Arya suggested that, perhaps, it would be best not to encourage public visitations that day. Sansa nodded in agreement. She knew it was an appropriate course, but she still would have welcomed the distraction. Now, she had the whole day to find her way through.  Sansa made her way into the courtyard of Winterfell, checking on the daily maintenance; how the stables were stocked for hay, if there was enough wood stored for the time being, had the innermost section of the wall surrounding the fortress been repaired?   
        She circled the courtyard until her elbow was caught by Gendry. "Lady Sansa, may I ask a private audience?"  
        Patting his hand gently, she obliged, leading him away from prying ears. "Of course, Lord Gendry," she answered, still unable to break courtesy in the public eye. "Is my sister unwell?"  
        "No, My Lady," he assured her, taking a deep, steadying breath. They reached an area that seemed to afford them some privacy near the steps to the battlements. "But I do wish-  
        _Crack_. The sound of a loud smack broke both of their concentration. "Loathsome little cunt!" _Crack_. Another strike. In the far corner of their hiding place, a gruff, unkempt man in tattered furs had a sobbing woman pinned against the stairs. "You'll do as I say. If I wanted to take you, right here, you'd have no choice but to let me." A chill cast over Sansa and she turned to face the man. "I think I might. What do you say to that?" The barbarian tore open the woman's dress, striking her again, before loosening his pants, thrusting against her.  
        "Yes, Yeridor," the yet-unknown woman said through gritted teeth, tears welling in her eyes that glossed over with a vacancy Sansa recognized all too well.   
        The brute grabbed the woman's face, digging his fingers into her cheeks. "Yes, what?  
        She panted, truly frightened. "Yes, My Lord," she whimpered.  
        Sansa steeled herself. Early in her time as Lady of Winterfell, Sansa had lain decree that any intimate acts of violence were to be punishable in the eyes of the law. It is to be set forth, from this point forward, she'd said, that anyone who moves to strip a person of their humanity should be stripped of the parts which bring such notions. The Wall, what was left of it, would no longer be offered as an alternative, as the Brothers of the Night's Watch had been a friend to them during the Long Night and persons of that disposition should hold no such honor. She gritted her teeth, whipping toward the voice. "Lord of What, may I ask?" She snaked her arm into her friends and guided them both toward the scene before them. "Lord Gendry, do you recall what the North's law is on sexual violence?" she prompted, icy blue eyes never leaving the attacker.  
        "Public Castration, My Lady," he affirmed without hesitance, grip tightening on his Lady's sister's arm protectively.  
        The hulking beast of a man straightened his stance, as though his attempts to tower over the pair and the encroaching guards were supposed to be intimidating. Weak minded mem no longer intimidated her. "Is that supposed to be a threat?" the man spat, moving away from the sobbing woman he'd so recently brutalized. Snarling, he insisted "You won't touch me." Sansa refused to back down, simply staring at him. The man brought the back of his hand crashing against the side of Sansa's face. She gasped, raising her hand to stay her men and tightened her grip on Gendry's arm, steeling him from lunging to attack. "Maybe if one of those husbands of yours had fucked you right, you'd know that this is what love looks like. I should do it for that imp of yours. What say I kill him and make me Lord of Winterfell?" he laughed.  
        Sansa clenched her jaw, knowing her silence to be more powerful than so many words. That, and she couldn't come up with one worthwhile thing to say that wasn't something unbecoming of a ruler. Especially the just one she wished to be.  
        As Gendry turned to her, he spoke gently, remembering that this was not a new scene for her. "Sansa, are you-" he asked.  
        Straightening again, ignoring the angry throbbing in her cheek, she patted her friend's arm and let the corners of her mouth curl into a smile that didn't carry over to her cold eyes. "Gendry," she nodded, stepping away and assuring that she was fine. She shot a dark look at the guards now so close behind her, hands on the hilts of their weapons, ready for orders. "Restrain him," she sighed. She strode past him, eyes threatening. "Interesting proposition." She lingered not by the attacker but moved to the trembling woman. "What is your name?"  
        Sansa knelt by the woman's side, offering a gentle hand to help her to her feet. "Lyanna, milady."  
        "Beautiful name," she smiled warmly. "After my late aunt, I would imagine."  
        Voice trembling, the woman managed a weak, "Yes, milady." She couldn't bring herself to meet the eyes of the Lady of Winterfell.  
        Assessing the woman carefully, she asked, "Are you hurt, My Lady?" Somewhere in a distant memory, she recalled someone asking her the same once.  
        "No, milady," she lied. There was clearly blood dripping from her cheek and fresh, angry welts on her arms, but Sansa knew all too well the indignity of such wounds. Her dress was torn to shreds, baring large portions of her slight frame to the elements, whole body shaking from some combination of bitter cold and consuming fear.  
        "Is this the first time something like this has happened?" she asked calmly.   
        "No, and I won't hesitate to do it again," the vile creature barked from behind Sansa. "A wife is a man's property to-"  
        Attention never breaking from the battered woman, Sansa spoke evenly. "Ser Keithan, if our would-be Lord speaks again, do remove his tongue, will you?" She took the girl's arm and walked back to Gendry's side with her, staging her protected between the two of them. Gendry removed his cloak and wrapped the poor girl's shoulders in it. Sansa took a deep breath, staring the heartless man down. "You asked earlier if I was threatening you, Yeridor. I wasn't then. That was a threat. See the difference?" He struggled against the guard's arms, grunting as his tongue was grasped between his fingers. Her eyes never left his, all business. "Now, Lord Gendry. This man speaks of love. Since he believes my opinion marred by unhappy marriage, perhaps a man's opinion on the matter will prove beneficial. I believe you've some experience in the matter. Is this your idea of love?" she asked, not bothering to look back at her friend.  
        "Absolutely not, My Lady," he assured through a clenched jaw, clasping his hands behind his back.  
        "Would you ever strike a woman you intend to marry?" She knew his answer, but still, she asked. In public appearance, Gendry was a model specimen of what this man thought himself to be. Powerful, strong, handsome, stoic, dutiful, trained... Of which this oaf was none.  
        "No."  
        She gritted her teeth as the attacker jerked in protest of his captivity, chomping at the gloved hand that covered his mouth. "Would you ever take her against her will?"  
        "Never."  
        A knowing smile played at the corners of her mouth. "Do you believe that there is ever a place for it?"  
        "No."  
        "I thought not." A thought which satisfied her immensely. As much as she sought to rebuild the crumbling walls of her homelands, Sansa also meant to rebuild her life and the lives of those she loved. She knew his intentions with their initial conversation. _You may absolutely have my sister's hand,_ she thought so loudly as though to shout them at him. _I give you my blessing freely and emphatically. Though, if you tell her you thought it so important to ask me, you may find that her taking your hand would be a much more literal phrase, you gentle, besotted man._ Sansa returned her energy, cold and calculated, back to the beast in front of her. "Now, here is my problem- Yeridor, was it?" A different Winterfell played at her mind; one where she was captive wife to a man not unlike the one before her. Her hands trembled, but she continued on. "The crime for which we stopped you today is punishable by public castration, which I would personally see to right here and now." She reached a blind hand for the weapon of one of her men. She took a deep breath as a sword made its way to her. She dragged delicate fingers over its sharp blade before moving to demonstrate her capability. She didn't possess her sister's combat ability, but a Sansa scorned was every bit as strong. She muted her stance, giving the sword back to its owner. "Unfortunately, you made the mistake to insult my husband, to threaten me, and to physically assault me. Do you know what the penalty for that is?" Her mouth twitched almost imperceptibly as he struggled. "Ser Keithan, take him to the dungeons." She turned back to her friend, addressing him softly. "Thank you, Gendry." _For caring. For staying beside me. For yielding to the Lady of Winterfell. For loving my sister in the ways a person deserves to be loved. For not being this man. For not being Joffrey, or Ramsay, or Petyr._ Sansa left such gratitudes unsaid. He nodded understanding, still supporting the sobbing widow-to-be. She patted his free arm. "Lord Gendry, please see that Lyanna gets home safely," she bade, turning then to the poor woman. "If you need anything, please seek counsel at Winterfell." She touched her elbow gently and the woman gasped, shrinking back. Gendry nodded dutifully, leading the woman off. "And, Lord Gendry?" He stopped, turning back to face her. "I suspect that your question would be met with a yes and I would consider it an honor if it were." A bright smile lit up the man's face.  
        Yeridor would be the first person to be executed since the war. He would be the first person to die by Sansa's hand as Lady of Winterfell, a thought which struck terror in her. She would keep the old ways as the North had always done, no matter how deeply the idea would leave her shaken.   
Lady Arya and Lord Bran should have been by her side for this, she knew, but something within her still yearned to protect them from this. They'd seen worse. That didn't mean that she wasn't still their big sister. They didn't need to see this. Besides that, she knew that if she'd mentioned a word of it to Arya, she'd have insisted to do it in her stead and, for all her anxiety surrounding the subject, she would have let her.  
        That way would not have been the North's way.  
        She strode to the cell with four guards. She opened the door and her men dragged the criminal down the line of cells to a large stone at the end. They pinned him to it, holding his neck out straight.  
        Sansa steeled herself, holding again a borrowed blade from one of the guards. Voice low, solemn and deliberate, she began. "Yeridor, for your crimes of Rape, Threat of Bodily Harm to the Lord and Lady of Winterfell and Assault on your Liege Lady, I, Sansa of the house Stark, first of her name, Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North, in protection of the realm of Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Lady of Dragonstone, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, sentence you to die." She raised the sword straight over her head and brought it down swiftly, severing the man's head clean off. The sword dropped from her still clenched hands.  
        The clink of the blade against the stone carried Sansa through time.   
        Her body grew warm, drenched in sunshine, the eyes of a crowd of thousands upon her. She could feel the soft silks of her dress.  The weight of her the lion charm she wore around her neck, a gift from Joffrey.  Her eyes locked on Arya, crouched at the foot of the statue of Baelor the Blessed.  She struggled against a knight as her father's head rolled across the platform to her feet. The people cheered.  Sansa screamed and screamed until her voice gave out.  This time, she didn't faint.  
        She ran.   
        She ran and she ran and she ran.  
        She ran as far and as fast for as long as her body would hold out until she no longer could, falling to her knees in full-bodied sobs. Her stomach wretched, losing her breakfast into the snow.  
        _Snow_.   
        _It doesn't snow in King's Landing,_ she thought. Her hands dug into the cold, wet snow and she sighed. It was just a dream. A waking dream, but a dream. Just a fit of a broken woman. She had those, sometimes. _Fits_ , Maester Ayn had told her once, _are common in people who've experienced such horrors as yours._  
        Sansa rose to her feet, brushing the flakes from her skirts and tightened her cloak around her. She was in the Godswood... somewhere. But _where_? The midday sun that had been when she entered the dungeon seemed to have made its retreat from the sky recently enough, casting a deep pink hue over the white show, but it was growing darker by the minute. With the dark would come the bitterest cold.

        A raven landed at Tyrion's desk as he finished his supper. To the bird's leg, a small scroll was attached. The script was small, uneven and rushed. He read:  
        _Tyrion,_  
 _Sansa is gone. Come home, but keep a weather eye on the road as you near. Gendry will tell you everything when we see you._  
 _I'm afraid for her._  
 _Godspeed, brother._  
 _Arya_  
        All the blood drained from his face. His breath froze in his chest. _No. No, that can't be right._ He read the text over and over and over.

        Sansa stared up at the crisp Winter night sky, cursing herself silently for not paying more attention to her lessons on reading the stars. She remembered something about the Mother leading you home, but she couldn't remember which cluster represented the Mother and which end of it was supposed to help.  
        She recalled a room in The Eyrie where she used to go and hide from Lord Baelish's advances had a large star map painted on the ceiling, but she'd never thought to memorize it. She'd never thought she'd leave that place.

        Tyrion's heart raced as he fled to the next room, tossing the scroll to Jon, voice trembling as he stammered out its contents to the reader. He didn't know what it meant, but if Sansa was in trouble, he was certainly not going to stay here and wait for the next scroll to proclaim... No. _No_ , he wouldn't think it.  
        "Go," Jon implored, as though he could be expected to say nothing else. "I'll finish up here and be right behind." Tyrion stammered a bit, expecting pushback. "We've finished the negotiations. We're only still here as a formality until everything is complete."  
        His eyes welled with tears and he looked up at his friend. "Jon..." he wrung his hands and looked back at the floor.  
        Shaking his head, Jon crossed the room to him, putting a steady hand on his shoulder. "Don't you dare entertain that thought." Tyrion opened his mouth to speak, but Jon interrupted. " _Go!_ "  
        Without so much as another word, Tyrion was, in a word, gone.

        The night grew ever darker and ever colder. Sansa walked a little way, wrapping herself tighter in her fur cloak, cursing herself for reacting the way she had. The snow began to fall and the winds began to blow. The combination stung like a whip. She needed to find shelter.  
        She walked and walked, glad for her thick stockings and layers of skirts. If it weren't snowing, she could find some branches and fashion something... But there was no use of 'if'. She had, instead, to focus on what truly was.  
        She thought of Jon's stories of men at The Wall freezing to death if they grew idle. Perhaps it was best if she just kept moving... at least until she found someplace warm.   
  
        Earlier that afternoon, after escorting the bewildered Lyanna home, Gendry had returned to Winterfell in search of Sansa. He was worried- really, truly worried for her. She'd seemed so off after their encounter, and knowing what she was up against, he wanted to offer to stand by her side again. As strong and stubborn as both of the Stark women were, he knew that Lady Sansa would never tell Arya what she had to do until it was already done, so he knew she'd be alone. He waited by the entrance to the cells for her. An hour passed. Then three. Then five.   
        Before the sixth hour chimed, Arya had come to him after her patrol of the battlements. She questioned his motives, then if he'd seen Sansa and he had no choice but to tell her everything. She scrawled a note for Tyrion and affixed it to the swiftest raven in their possession before insisting that they go in search of her. Arya sent Gendry to find Brienne and beg her to come, that one of the Septas would be more than happy to watch Jaime while they went on an 'errand'. She, however, went to tell Bran what had happened and to ask, just once, for his help. "She moves with the Gods. It is up to them now," was his only response. She'd screamed and cried and begged for his help and he remained unmoved. Storming out, she wove a tapestry of vulgarities along the halls of Winterfell.  
        The trio reached the gate, asking a guard if he'd seen which way Lady Sansa had gone, if she'd been on foot, if she'd been alone. "Tore out of here like a Wildling," he said, "on foot and in a state. Went that way. Dunno how long ago, but I'll keep an eye." They gave their thanks and departed.  
        They moved quickly to make up some ground, but there were more than a few options in their direction. Mind racing, they tried to make sense of what Sansa was doing.  "Walks with the Gods! The Godswood!" Arya shrieked, taking off at a run, Brienne and Gendry at her heels.  
        "Sansa!" Brienne called into the trees, holding her torch ahead of her.  
        Gendry trailed behind, following suit. "Sansa! Where are you?"  
        "Will you two shut up?" Arya hissed. "If you scream her name like that and she's been taken, it'll tip our hand." She moved back to her companions. "If you scream her name like that and there's someone out there who would harm her if given the chance, they'll be on the lookout for her, too." She sighed, alternating her attention between them both. "If you scream her name like that and she doesn't want to be found, she'll run. Just _look_ for her. Don't yell." She marched off ahead of them in a huff. _Seven Hells, how did she become a knight and how did he live rough as he had?_   
        "And if she's hurt or hiding?" Brienne asked.  
        Gendry sped up to walk beside her, wrapping his arm around her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her, adding "Or has been taken but could fight if she knew there were others nearby?"  
        Brienne added sympathetically, "Arya, I know you're scared for her, but..."  
        She shoved Gendry off, remembering suddenly why she didn't like having people with her. "Oh, do what you like, then," she groaned, rolling her eyes. _Sansa, come on._  
        Her companions shared a poignant glance. They both knew that her attitude likely didn't bode well for the outcome of their venture.

        Sansa thought back to the days just after they'd left for King's Landing. She'd believed such wonderful things were coming to her and so soon. She'd believed them with all her heart. She'd believed she'd be queen. She believed she'd have all the riches the world could offer. She believed in the _Prince_...   
        The moment they'd killed Lady for no true reason, she should have known. _Stupid girl with stupid dreams,_ she admonished herself, searching for any sign of familiarity in the woods.  
        But she learned.   
        Truth be told, as much as she sometimes missed the bright, shining version of the world she saw as a girl, she was proud of herself; of enduring all she had. _I don't particularly appreciate the way my mind plays dark tricks on me,_ she admitted to herself. During all of the conflicts, she often found herself wishing she'd never left Winterfell. In some moments, she even blamed herself for a great many things; her father's death, everything that happened to Arya and herself subsequently because she was so foolishly determined to cling to those childhood dreams. If only she had listened when father wanted to send her home...  
        But if that had been, she wouldn't be the woman she is today. There is no stopping the progress of time. Of that much, Sansa was absolutely sure. So, she would be an older version of that little girl, never aware of how much more there was to life than pretty songs. She wouldn't have gone through her life easily manipulated and pushed aside, resigned to the belief that women simply would not, _should_ not, _could not_ do the things she found herself doing in Winterfell now.   
        And if she'd never gone to King's Landing, she'd never have married Tyrion. She may never have known him at all. She may never have loved at all, if any of the talk of soulmates and destiny was to be believed.   
        _I just need to handle the fear_.  
        If only it were that simple.  
  
        There was no sound on the road but the hoofbeats of the team pulling his carriage. They were nearly halfway to Winterfell now, and Tyrion began searching desperately in the dark. He'd piled every blanket he could grab into this carriage on his previous trip and still been cold. He grabbed three more and an extra cloak on his way out of Laithenstone. If he was feeling the cold still, he could only imagine how his wife would be faring. She couldn't have made it this far on foot, but if she'd been on horseback... He tried to muddle out the details, thoughts stalling every time he returned to the word _Gone_. She couldn't be gone. _If there is anyone listening,_ he thought, _do not take her away from me._ He had no idea what he was truly looking for. _Gone_ could mean so many things and he didn't want to dwell on any of them. He found himself, instead, back in a cell in King's Landing, the first time he'd heard that Sansa was gone. It had been Podrick, not a raven from Arya. And Sansa had been taken to the Eyrie. Not gone. Taken. Even then, gone didn't feel right. It had such a sense of finality. He laughed bitterly. If the events that brought him to that cell had happened right now, he and Sansa may have been as guilty as they were charged. His wolf of a wife might have leaped over the table with her teeth bare as soon as Joffrey started his chain of humiliation. What a sick, twisted child, he thought of his _dear, departed nephew_. The little bastard had started all of this. Even from the grave, he was keen to torment. A chilling thought encased him. Tyrion thought of a text he'd encountered once, of insomnia and it's effects on the mind. What if Sansa's lack of sleep had made her dreams so real to her that she... He had to refuse that thought. He couldn't let himself go down that road. He needed to focus on her. _I love you more than I thought possible. I was so alone. Sansa, don't leave me alone._

        _I don't pray anymore._ Sansa heard her own voice as she stared at a red-leafed tree. It was definitely a Weirwood, of that she was sure. But it wasn't, as she had hoped, the Heart Tree. If it were, she would know how to return home. This tree bore no face. Perhaps, though, it would still connect her to the seven as her mother had once assured her the Heart Tree did. She knelt beside its trunk and stared up into the leaves. _If there is anyone listening, bring me home. I am a stupid, scared, fragile woman with baseless fears that can no longer harm me._ Joffrey. Ramsay. Petyr. All of their attacks had scarred her mind much worse than they could ever have marred her skin. _I cannot die out here. I jumped from the battlements of Winterfell once, admitting that death would have been better than the life I lived. I welcomed the thought. I no longer welcome death. I banish it._ She sighed. She knew so much death. She'd even fought it herself. The loss of her father before her very eyes, much a weapon used against her to force fealty. Mother and Robb. Their righteous anger drove them to their deaths. She could see that, now, but still... A moment of such joy to be used as such torment. Poor, sweet Rickon. For all that Ramsay did to her, she often forgot that he was directly responsible for the death of her youngest brother. Perhaps that was too tragic for her mind. She often wrote him off as a casualty of battle. That wasn't true. Most fresh in her mind lay Theon's peaceful face as the funeral pyres were lit. His was a death of sacrifice, she knew, but it still felt for naught. It was as it had to be, she'd been assured. He knew what had to be done and he accepted it. That didn't make it right. He'd been so close to seeing a peaceful world. After everything he'd experienced, he deserved it. As she'd gazed upon his form among the fallen, she saw herself. But she wasn't dead and she didn't want to be. When they'd taken their own fates into their hands, it had come to her midair. She would accept whatever happened when she hit the ground. But she wanted to live. She wondered, for a moment, if that was the realization that separated their fates. If her resolve not to die was what kept her alive, then she would keep making that decision every day. _I love them. I miss them. But I do not long to be with them. I cannot change what has happened, but I carry them with me. They can never be replaced. But I have people by my side again. My family is rebuilding as much as any city._ She thought of Brienne, a woman who had spent so much time alone, finally accepting the girl she'd been sworn to protect as no longer a duty but a friend. As time wore on, and they shared a supper one quiet night, Brienne had made a quip about her earliest days with her husband, a prisoner to her. Sansa noted that once, her husband had joked about marriage being a different kind of prison and it dawned on her. Jaime and Tyrion are brothers and in all their days together, neither of them had realized that they were, indeed, sisters now and they'd laughed and laughed at the thought. There was no blood bond. One husband dead, the other still long since estranged, and they managed, somehow, to find each other. She thought of how much hope she felt stirring within her when she saw Brienne's daughter, Jaime, for the first time. Even now, she felt a flutter in her belly at the prospect of new life after so long. And sweet, devoted Gendry. He loved her sister so dearly. Even though his presence was the newest for her, she believed with all her heart that if he were to marry Arya, he would grow to understand that he needn't float in the periphery any longer. He was already family. Sansa recalled how her heart had broken when she marked her sister, Arya, among the lost in her mind and how relieved she'd been to finally see her once more. She still drove her crazy, sometimes, as younger sisters do, but she couldn't imagine Winterfell as it was without her. But then came Tyrion, so slowly and then all at once. Life meant something now. She had people to come home to. She needed to get home. _I was so alone for so long. I don't want to die alone. Don't let me die alone._ She stood up, refreshed in her determination to get home. She shivered the inactivity from her hands and walked on instinct.

        Trudging through the snow, Arya's mind struggled to grasp what they were actually doing. _This can't be happening. You are my sister and I will go to the ends of the map for you. I don't believe I still have to._ When she'd been in the courtyard outside the sept of Baelor, so many years earlier, she knew she couldn't save her father. But the one person in all of King's Landing she thought she had a chance to save was her older sister. She rolled Needle's hilt in her hand even now and felt the determination of that ten-year-old girl course through her. In retrospect, she knew that would not have been so, but as Yoren shielded her from the vision of her father's execution, she would link only Sansa's screams on that day to it. And everything that happened after... _I was so alone. If you're not here... Bran is the three-eyed raven. Jon is a Snow and a Targaryen. The lone wolf dies. The pack survives. Sansa, don't leave me alone again._

        The woods flew by as Sansa ran. Her thoughts were muddled and frantic.  
        _I'm a direwolf,_ she thought. _I run and the dust kicks at my feet in clouds. I am a majestic beast to be feared and admired. Witness my strength and beauty!_  
        There was no dust, though. Only tread worn mud.  
        _I'm next to a rider. He is shouting and tells me to come along but I don't. I don't need him. A direwolf needs no human help. A direwolf doesn't feel the cold. I'll just keep running._  
        But Sansa Stark was not a direwolf. She was a human.  
        _And, Gods, is it cold._

        The carriage ground to a halt and the young man at the reigns hopped down to relieve himself behind a tree. Tyrion huffed, drumming his fingers on the seat nervously. "My Lord, perhaps it is best..." the driver started as he returned, not used to such a pace.  
        "That we make haste? Yes. I agree." When it seemed as though the lad meant to protest, he continued. "If I had my own saddle, I'd be riding that horse to death right now. Do you understand?" He knows it's not fair to yell at this boy, but he can't help himself. His voice drops to a snarl. "My wife's life is in danger and I will not have you waste my time. You've a team of six, a small carriage and one markedly smaller passenger. We should be making record time." He leans back into the seat, ignoring the look of pity of which he was on the receiving end. "Let's go!"

      _My mind is playing tricks on me._ Sansa finally stopped running, realizing just what was happening. She was freezing. If she didn't calm down, she'd likely grow disoriented. She didn't know much of the process of freezing to death, but she knew that it wasn't particularly pleasant and she'd fight it until the last. _If Daenerys is unburnt, perhaps if I make it out of this, I'll be unfrozen! Her powers from fire and mine from ice. Wouldn't that be something?_ She permitted herself a twisted laugh. _Mother of Dragons and her lover-nephew's cousin-sister Mother of Direwolves and Snowy Lions. Are there such things as snowy lions?_ She came upon a clearing. _Lovely_ , she thought. _Wait until Tyrion sees._ She trailed her hands through the low hanging limbs of a tree. The snow sparkling in the pre-dawn light looked like a million candles. And a pond. _How lovely! I haven't gone for a swim in some time!_

        It's been hours and the group on foot has had no luck. No luck indeed. _Why aren't there footprints?_ Arya, in her fear, faltered, finally gave in to Gendry's attempts at comfort. He wrapped them both in his thick cloak as they walked, protecting them both against the cold. He gazed at the sky, thrown off by it's lightening. "Arya, it's almost daybreak. Maybe we should..."  
        "No," she said abruptly. "No, we shouldn't. We need to find her." She was not ready to give up.  
        He sighed, kissing the top of her stubborn head. "What if you were right? What if she doesn't want to be found?" The young woman wrapped her gloved fingers into his shirt. She would not allow for that thought. She knew her sister. Sansa wanted to be found. She had to.  
        Brienne watched them walk from a few steps away. As much as she, too, was beginning to realize that they weren't actually making any advances wandering blindly, she knew that feeling all too well. They'd keep looking. For now, at least. "We find her anyway," the knight resolved.

        Sansa waded out into the water to her waist, feeling free and calm. The waters were warm, just as they'd been the last time. "You're good at that," she cooed to the phantom fingers that rubbed at her shoulders.   
        She found herself in a dreamlike calm.  
        She could sleep right here.   
        _When did I get so sleepy?_

        Gendry squinted into the clearing. "Is that..." he couldn't bring himself to finish his sentence, for fear that he was right.  
        "That's a cloak!" Brienne affirmed, heart suddenly in her throat.  
        Arya couldn't move. Her feet may as well have frozen to their very spot.   
        "Sansa!" the man cried out, voice breaking. He snapped a branch from a tree and reached it into the water, trying to see if there was anyone with the fabric.   
        "Is it her?" Brienne asked from behind him, voice desperate. "Answer me, damn you!"

        "Nearly there, milord," the driver called. "Shouldn't be more than maybe a half-hour or so"  
        _Good_ , he thought. _Hopefully, Sansa will be home, asleep in our bed, and this will all have been a wild exaggeration._  
        _Splash_.  
        He should have known better than to hope. He looked up just in time to see the figure sink into the shallow water.  
        "Stop! Stop the carriage!" he called to the driver. He sped for the pond off the side of the road and whispered to himself, or her, or the Gods, "Please, no." _Let it be a bear. A remarkably large fish. A trick of my tired mind_. "Help me!" He called back to the man at the carriage. "Get in here and help me, damn you!" _Please_.  
  
        The water wasn't hot anymore. Its cold stung like every blow she'd ever received all at once. _This is it then,_ she thought. _I'm sorry, Tyrion. I'm so sorry. This was not supposed to happen... Take care of our family. Take care of Arya. Don't be alone._


	11. keep you in the dark what had you expected

> I'll admit, for a moment I felt so afraid  
> Just to show you the mess that I made  
> There are pieces I usually hide  
> But when you collect me with your steady hand  
> With a language that I understand  
> I feel put back together inside  
>  \- Ease My Mind, Ben Platt

  
        As many blankets as he'd thought to pack in the carriage for the day's ride back to Winterfell weren't enough for Tyrion to break the soaking wet chill over his wife. As soon as they'd made it into the cabin, he'd begun stripping them of their wet clothes, knowing well the lethality of the combination of cold and wet. "Sansa, my love," he said, desperate to keep her talking. "You need to stay awake." His hands shook with more with each layer he removed.  
        "Tyrion?" she asked, still disoriented from her daylong run in the cold and more recent brush with the icy waters.  
        He wrapped them in every blanket he had and laid as close to her as possible to conserve body heat. "Yes, Sansa. I'm here." He rubbed his hands up and down her side, trying to force heat by friction. Anything to make them both stop shivering. "I have you."  
        "I'm so cold."  
        _At least she's still feeling,_ he thought. _She hadn't been in the water long enough to grow numb._ "I know, Sansa, I know. We're almost home," he said, trying to calm them both, "but you have to stay awake. Okay, can you do that for me?" She didn't answer, simply nodded her head and shivered. "Sansa, talk to me."  
        "I just need to rest for a moment," she said, voice hardly a whisper. She could always sleep so well in his arms.  
        He brushed her icy wet hair away from her body, and rubbed more at her upper arms, hoping the motion would keep her awake. "No, my love. Not yet," he said, "Gods man, can't you go any faster?" he shouted.  
        "Don't be angry..." she advised drowsily, grasping at his shoulders. "Anger doesn't help."  
        "I'm not angry with you. Never with you." He tightened the blankets and furs around them like a cocoon, cursing his small frame for not being able to provide more warmth. Instead, he edged them toward the sunnier window. "Look, Winterfell," he said, trying to draw her attention to the approaching figure of home.  
       She didn't have the strength to turn her head to look. "I love you." Her eyelids fluttered sleepily.  
        The bluish pallor of her fingers and lips chilled him more than the cold could ever have. "Sansa, stay with me." He shook her lightly, "I love you and I need you to stay awake until we get home."

        Upon their return, Winterfell became a flurry of activity. Maester Ayn moved faster than he was likely to have done in thirty years. It would probably have been an entertaining sight, meriting a snide comment from Tyrion if he hadn't been so scared. Keeping her wrapped in blankets, the old man carried the Lady of Winterfell up to their chambers, Tyrion following behind. A fire was lit and Tyrion scrambled finding each of their warmest clothes while a team of Masters busied themselves on Sansa. When one came to try to check him over, he chased him away. "I'm fine," he snapped. "Take care of my wife."  
       Things calmed before long. She'd have to be observed, but she could sleep. They gave her a draught so she would sleep soundly for a while, allowing her body to regain as much of its strength as possible before she woke. "It would be best if you stay in the bed with her, as close to her as you can, but you know that already." The older man clapped Tyrion on the shoulder. "You've done well, My Lord." One of the kitchen girls entered the room, bringing a kettle of tea for Tyrion at the Maester's request. "Drink, it'll keep knocking the chill from your bones." He sat on the window sill as Tyrion climbed into the bed, propping himself up so that Sansa could rest against his chest. "It's a blessing you reached her when you did, and that you were in a carriage. She doesn't appear to have been in the water all that long. The blankets were your biggest saving grace. I suppose being of thin southern blood has its ad..."  
        "She was so cold," Tyrion interrupted, not really interested in the man's relentless jibes to his southern nature.   
        He nodded sagely. "There are stages to this sort of thing. She appears to have only made it to the end of the first. The cold has not affected her nerves, her heart, or her brain." He leaned forward, "We'll keep a close eye on her to be sure, but I expect a full recovery." The Maester eyed Lord Tyrion cautiously. He certainly didn't want to offend, but perhaps... "Do we know what caused her to run from Winterfell?"  
        Tyrion sighed, sadly. "No, the raven I received from Lady Arya mentioned that Lord Gendry would give me the details upon my return." He hadn't even thought about that in hours. One of the guards who escorted them into the residence had mentioned something about Arya being out searching, but he hadn't paid him much mind. "Have they returned? And My Lady's cousin Jon should be not too far behind, I expect." He stroked Sansa's arm delicately. _Are we ever going to get a moment where there is no mortal danger?_  
        "Not yet, but Lord Bran seems to believe they're on their way. I'll see that a room is ready for Lord Snow."  
        He raised his head to the Maester. "Is Lord Bran nearby? I would love to have a word with my good brother if he has a moment to spare." He gritted his teeth a bit, his all-knowing-all-seeing brother's power having slipped his mind until that moment. Surely, he could have been of some assistance to the search so that the others would have gotten there far ahead of him.  
        Standing to take his leave, he simply stated, "I'll make inquiries. My Lord," he nodded, turning to the door.  
        "Thank you, Maester Ayn."  
        From just outside the door, Tyrion heard footsteps. "Is she-" asked Arya's voice.  
        "Inside, My Lady. Asleep beside-"  
        Three sets of footsteps carried three exhausted searchers into the room. "Thank the Seven!" Brienne said, near collapsing into the window seat.  
        "No, thank Tyrion," Arya said, throwing her arms around her good brother's neck before sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking her sister's leg.  
        Shaking his head, he stated simply, "I wouldn't have known. What happened?" He pointed his attention to Gendry. The blacksmith sat on the hope chest and began his story. From the beginning and sparing no detail, barring only what he'd intended to discuss with Sansa. He told them of the attacker, how strong Sansa had been, the way the brute had threatened the Lord and Lady based on nothing but his own idiocy, how he walked the woman back and by the time he returned to offer to be by her side for her first execution, she'd run off. "And I wasn't here." _You failed again, Tyrion._ He wrapped his arm tighter around his sleeping wife.  
        She moved closer, placing a hand on his knee. "No," he opened his mouth to protest, but she interrupted. "Tyrion, no. We were here and we couldn't help. There was no way. This was no one's fault." She insisted, knowing that he didn't believe her. "And we don't know what her intent was. As far as we know, there was truly nothing to save her from. She may have just gone into the woods and got lost."  
        "To do what?"  
        "To pray? I don't know." Arya hadn't expected him to ask for clarification and certainly didn't have a helpful suggestion.  
        Tyrion wasn't buying it. "She hasn't prayed in a long time, Arya. At least not in that type of sense." His heart sank. "Has she ever..." he trailed off, imploring her not to make him ask if his wife had ever tried to take her own life.  
        Arya swallowed. "Apparently, once," she looked back to Brienne.  
        "She and the Greyjoy boy threw themselves from the battlements to get away from... well." Tyrion nodded, understanding who. "But I don't think... I think she was just ready to accept any alternative to him."  
        "Oh," he nodded sadly. "Apart from the usual nightmares, was there anything else out of the ordinary? Had she been sleeping?"  
        "No less than usual," Arya confirmed.  
        "Alright. You three should get some sleep. It's been a long day," he said. The trio rose, preparing to head back to their rooms. "Oh, if you see Jon, tell him she's safe and to get some rest. If you see Bran, please send him to me. Just to talk."   
        Arya sighed, leaning against Gendry for support, realizing just how tired she really was. "You know he won't tell you. He wouldn't tell us if she was okay or where she was."  
        "Does he not care?"  
        She shrugged, sadly. "We still call him Bran, but I honestly believe my brother died a long time ago. 'She walks with the Gods?'" She closed her eyes in disgust, bordering on tears at how frustrating it was. "What an asinine way to say 'she's in the Godswood, Arya.'" The strong girl dissolved into sobs, grabbing fistfuls of Gendry's shirt.  
        "Arya, she's okay," he whispered, rocking her back and forth quietly. Brienne came to her side as well, stroking her back in an attempt to calm her.  
        "She's here and she's fine," Tyrion assured, pulling back the covers a little and rubbing her arm, as though proving her existence with his touch. When the younger Lady of Winterfell calmed, they began to leave once more. "Arya-" Tyrion said quietly, "Thank you for telling me."  
        She shook her head. "Thank you for finding her."   
        At that, the couple departed, leaving just Brienne. She leaned against the bedpost watching the pair for a while, lost in her own thoughts. Finally, when she'd sorted through the bulk of it, she spoke. "Do you want me to stay so you can sleep, too?" she offered.  
        "No," Tyrion smiled. _Always dutiful, aren't you? Even now._ "No, thank you, Brienne. I believe this watch is mine."   
        "Take care of her," she smiled, patting the woman's leg gently.  
        He nodded. "Kiss Jaime for us."

        Many hours later, after Tyrion had slept some and was awakened by a wind overturning a crate in the courtyard, he chose, instead, to watch his wife as she slept. He was home in their bed and so wished that he could be as happy about that as he had been the last time, just the last time. Tyrion noticed a hastened pace in Sansa's breathing. He rubbed her back gently, hoping to calm her down before the nightmare roused her completely. She began to groan and writhe. After a few more minutes, she'd thrashed so much, she had begun to perspire. "No, please. Don't take me," she whimpered, still asleep. "Please, don't. Tyrion!" she cried out.  
        He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Sansa, I'm here." He rubbed her arm gently, hoping to wake her as easily as he could without startling her. "My love, I'm here. Wake up." He spoke a little more loudly, moving his hands to her waist and shifting her a few times. Finally, her eyes opened. She settled down, seeming to realize that her dream's threats didn't follow her into her waking life. "Do you want to talk about it?" She shook her head silently. "Alright. Here," he said, sitting back up and reaching for the glass he had on the nightstand, "have some water." Sansa simply blinked in response. "Please, my love. Drink something for me," he lowered the glass to her lips. She obliged. "That's my girl," Tyrion said, wiping a stray drip from her chin with his thumb. He put the glass back.   
        Sansa snaked her arms around his waist and pulled him close, resting her head on his thigh. He stroked her hair gently until she fell back to sleep.

        The day that followed looked to be a difficult one, so it was decided early that all court activities would be canceled. He told one of the house girls that he and Lady Stark would like to break their fasts in their chambers. He also asked to have the Maester's logs of the courts he'd missed and the house leger books brought up so he would be able to update himself through the morning. When he returned, Sansa was sprawled across the bed in a way that looked so comfortable, he thought not to disturb her. He tucked himself into the high backed chair and made himself look busy. Some time later, on one of the hundreds of times he looked up from his papers to check on her, he noticed that her eyes were open. "How long have you been awake?" He asked, moving to the bed and taking her hand in his. "Can I get you something? How about some tea?" No response. "The kitchen girl mentioned a cook's new recipe for a sweetbread with dried fruits. Care to sample some?" He gestured to the plate on the table. Still nothing. He reached out and ran his thumb across her forehead gently. "What can I do for you?" She looked down and shook her head almost imperceptively. "When you're ready..."

        Later that afternoon, Tyrion made another desperate attempt at getting through to her. "Sansa, please look at me. I know you hear me," he said, moving to her with a small bowl of broth from the kettle of soup they'd put on the fire at lunch. "Here, can you take some of this? Please?" He brought the spoon to her lips. "You need to eat, Sansa. Please?" She watched his every move as though behind glass. She could see, she could hear, she may have had the ability to speak and move, but she found herself powerless to do so. She felt as though trapped within her head.

        Just before the midnight hour, Maester Ayn came to visit their chambers. The men stood in the hall and spoke confidentially. "Perhaps she should come with us. If she won't eat or drink..."  
        "No, I will take care of her," he assured.   
        The older man closed his eyes at the stubborn husband. "Begging your pardon, My Lord, but you don't appear to be capable of doing so. These things often require force."  
        _Force_. That was precisely why he was not going to let anyone take Sansa anywhere. Tyrion gritted his teeth and folded his arms, looking the man squarely in the eye.  "Begging your pardon, _Maester Ayn,_ but no one forces my wife to do anything. Do you hear me?" It seemed for a moment that the Maester was going to argue, but thought better of it. Tyrion continued. "I will see to her in my own way and you will do well not to second guess my force."  
        Maester Ayn stepped back before ultimately turning away. "Yes, My Lord."  
        "She'll eat when she needs to," came a placid voice from the end of the hallway.  
        The three-eyed raven had still not lost his habit of lurking just out of the way. "You, My Lord, are anything but calming," Tyrion groaned.   
        "I'm not meant to be calming."  
        "Why didn't you help her?" He asked, slowly turning around. "She's your sister, for Gods' sake!"  
        "I can't help anyone."  
        "You can, you just won't!" Tyrion said, entering his chambers and closing the door slightly harder than he meant to. He leaned against the door and buried his face in his hands. "Shit," he hissed.  
        He needn't have worried about waking Sansa, though. The woman had been awake the whole time. She'd heard the whole thing.

        Tyrion sat by Sansa's side all night. When she was awake, he made offers of anything he could think of. If he thought he could get a lemon in the North in the middle of Winter, he'd have spent a fortune to get it there.  
        With each passing hour, his fear began to rise. By dawn, he was desperate. He thought back to how she'd been much the same after his attack. It was unlikely that something sexual would break her trance. He'd have to be a little more creative.  
        "My love, please. You haven't eaten in days, now," he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. "Please, I'll do anything." His eyes searched hers. He implored. He pled. Then it hit him. "You know, this isn't the first time we've had this conversation. Oh, I know, we've had it a dozen times in the last twenty-four hours, but indeed I reference another time. Another place." He reached for her hand and ran his thumb over it carefully. "I meant it then, and I mean it now. But now, there is so much love behind it that I can hardly breathe." He held their hands together over his heart. "Please, Sansa. I can't let you starve. I swore to protect you." He moved into the bed and brought his face very close to hers. "My Lady, I am your husband. Let me help you." His eyes brimmed with tears.  
        "How can you help me?" she asked, voice hoarse and dry from lack of use.  
        A sob broke loose. "I don't know, but I can try." Tears streaming down his face, he kissed her tenderly, hands flying to the back of her head. "Sansa," he breathed. She reached a hand to his face slowly, as though her muscles were just beginning to remember their purpose, to move, and gently wiped the tears from his eyes. "Here, can you sit up? " He asked, climbing in bed beside her. "Lean against me. Always lean on me." He reached for a cup of tea from the table and brought it to her lips. She drank slowly. "Can I get you to try some of this good bread, now? That's it," he cooed, breaking a piece from the loaf of sweetbread and offering it to her. She ate it slowly, carefully chewing and swallowing as though remembering how.  
        He looked at her with such affection and it shattered her quiet resolve. "I'm sorry," she sobbed, leaning into his shoulder. The tension of the last few days finally broke and she cried and cried, repeating "I'm sorry" over and over.  
        "No, Sansa," he said quietly, holding her tight. "Don't be sorry. Don't cry, My Love." He did his best to soothe them both as he spoke. "We'll fix this."


	12. to make you my art and make you a star

Remember when we couldn't take the heat  
I walked out, I said, I'm setting you free  
But the monsters turned out to be just trees  
When the sun came up you were looking at me  
\- Out Of The Woods, Taylor Swift

        Little by little, the world around Sansa began to make sense again. Her legs felt more sure under her. Her hands shook less. Words came more easily. After a day or two, Sansa decided she was up for visitors. Tyrion stood in the hallway, looking out the window to the courtyard as Arya and Gendry made their way up.  
        "Did you know about this?" Arya asked, gesturing to the new sword on her belt as she stormed toward him.  
        He cleared his throat, looking between Arya and Gendry, a few feet behind her. "About what, pray tell?"  
        "This," she said, pulling it out and showing him the handle; the hilt was formed of a lunging direwolf and the cage around it was made of waves and antlers that led to the pommel, the head of a stag.   
        He examined the piece, finally seeing the finished work, impressed. "Oh. What answer would please, My Lady?" She nudged his arm. "Are congratulations in order then?"  
        "Yes!" she replied, beaming as her newly betrothed finally reached them, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his head atop her shoulder.  
        He swooped to a bow, kissing her hand in an exaggerated gesture. "Well, then, congratulations, My Lady." He cleared his throat and raised an imaginary goblet in a toast. "Rich or poor, quick or slow, may you know nothing but happiness. May the joys of today be those of tomorrow."   
        Arya laughed, leaning forward to hug Tyrion. "Is she well?" she asked.   
        "Better."  
        She nodded and headed in to visit with her sister. Gendry and Tyrion stayed in the hall for a moment. After a congratulatory handshake, they leaned against the wall, watching the Stark sisters quietly in awe. "I believe this is yours," Gendry said eventually, remembering what he still held in the pouch on his belt and handing the small item, wrapped in cloth, to Tyrion.   
        Rushing to her sister's side and leaping into the bed, legs curled beneath her, Arya bounced a little. Sansa smiled at her sister's slightly overzealous entrance. In reality, she'd been expecting her to make her entrance more gingerly, given the circumstances surrounding the visit, but she was grateful that she seemed unphased. "I got a new sword," she admitted.  
        "Is that so?" Sansa asked, curious at her excitement. Arya unsheathed it and held it forward to her. "It's lovely, Arya."  
        "Her name is Unity," she said, as though that alone should clarify her excitement.  
        "Interesting name for a sword." Sansa mused. She was a little disappointed, truthfully. She'd thought perhaps...  
        Arya rolled her eyes and tapped at the handle. "Look at the hilt." She was nearly bursting but wanted Sansa to figure it out on her own.  
       "It's beautiful. Almost like a tapestry," she admitted, taking in its details. The direwolf was ornate, inlaid with silver. Below it the stag, encrusted with slivers of amber. The guard's intricate waves and antlers seemingly braided to protect the handler's fist. She kept coming back to the second animal. Why a stag? _What a strange..._ her blue eyes brightened and Arya's smile shone brighter than before. "A stag? Did he finally ask? Oh, Arya, congratulations!" Arya sheathed Unity and opened her arms, hugging Sansa tightly. "He is good and he loves you so."   
        "He's alright, I guess," she said in mock indifference.   
        When they separated, Sansa winced, rubbing the sides of her chest. Arya raised an eyebrow, questioning the motion. "I'm fine. Sometimes my chest still feels the cold as though the muscles are frozen."  
         Her smile dissipated. "I'm sure that'll pass," she said sympathetically and rested her hand on her sister's knee.  
        Sansa mimicked her sister's movement. "Arya, I'm sorry," she admitted, avoiding her gaze.  
        "It's alright," she dismissed.  
        "No, it's not. I should have told you what happened in the first place, but something snapped. Like that boorish monster hitting that poor woman restarted a chain of events long since over and I had to live them all over until I caught up." She settled back into the pillows, leaning more against the headboard. She folded her hands against her stomach and stared at the canopy."I slipped into a daze that I couldn't escape from and I never meant for any of it. Arya, you have to believe that. I got scared and I ran. I ran as far and as fast as I could. It was like the nightmare I have of Lady chasing me up the Kingsroad and into Joffrey's arms, only real. And I couldn't snap myself out of it." She pulled a pillow into her lap and hugged it tightly, pressing her face into it. "Every fear and emotion I'd pushed aside all these years came to the surface and..." Arya stared at her sister. She'd spent so much time on the receiving end of such horrible things. It was truly a wonder that she'd made it this far. _If the tables had been turned,_ Arya thought, _it's fairly likely that neither of us would be here. I know I couldn't have survived what she has._ "Oh, Arya, stop looking at me like that. I'm fine."   
        Arya tried to regulate her expression. "Are you?" she asked.  
        "I will be," Sansa assured, taking her sister's hand.   
        "Can you promise me something?" the younger woman asked, after a few moments of silence.  
        "Anything."  
        She paused, trying to choose her words carefully. "The next time you feel something like this, tell someone. Don't hide it away out of some perception of duty." Sansa smiled softly. "No one would have blamed you for not swinging that sword. No one would have thought any less of you. Sometimes, the old way is not the right way and I know you play your cards close to your chest, but Sansa..."  
        Sansa leaned forward, wrapping her sister in her arms. "I will, Arya. I promise."  
        "Good. So, I don't want to wear a gown, necessarily, but do you know the way Daenerys dresses to ride, with the breeches under the flowing, slit-skirt gown? Would we call that a gown? I've been thinking..." Arya gushed and gushed about all of the ideas she had for a wedding to Gendry. Sansa listened with rapt attention, so thrilled for her sister's joy. She'd never once heard a peep from Arya about what she wanted from a wedding, so it was as though she saw the whole situation anew.   
        She thought of all the times they'd played out a make-believe wedding and, since none of their older brothers would ever play along, she'd always made Arya be the groom. Particularly, the last time she remembers ever playing out her little scenarios, it was the height of summer, two years prior to their departure for King's Landing. Sansa was twelve and already head-and-shoulders taller than Arya at eight. "When I marry," she'd said, "we'll be King and Queen or, at the very least, Lord and Lady of a Great house, and I won't have to look down at him like I do to look at you. He'll be strong and handsome and we'll have a hundred babies. They'll be blond like him with my blue eyes."  
        Even at eight, Arya had no time for Sansa's ideations. "And if he's little like me, you'll love him because you love me and I'm little."  
        She would always give an affected little sigh. "I love you because I have to. Besides, you don't love your husband like you love your sister."  
        "Then how?"  
        She'd paused, letting herself grow doe-eyed and overly dreamy. "With your whole heart."  
        Sansa's gaze deviated for a moment from Arya's plans and lingered on the men standing outside of her bedroom door. Perhaps, they were both right that day. Arya had known that she'd be taller than her husband, but Gods, did she love him with her whole heart.  
        As if he had heard her thoughts, Tyrion looked up, catching her gaze, and winked.   
        Sometime later, Gendry stuck his head in the door to wish her a speedy recovery. Arya hadn't intended to stay as long as she had, but she had been so excited to talk to Sansa that she couldn't help it. They left hand in hand and Sansa's heart swelled yet again.   
        Tyrion sat on the bed next to Sansa. "So, I hear a wedding is upon us?" He kissed her gently, still as though he thought she might break.  
        "Mmm, I guess so," she said, resting her hands on his hips as he spoke.  
        "And for all your dear little sister's talk of wedding plans," he said, unable to chase a cocksure grin from his handsome face, "you couldn't tear your thoughts away from your own doting husband."  
        Unwilling to let him get away with that, Sansa said, in a tone very matter-of-fact, "Actually, the way she was talking about Gendry, I was wondering if he might be interested in a package deal."  
        "Is that so?" he asked in mock surprise.  
        She shook her head. "In reality, I was thinking about how you are everything I used to talk about wanting in a husband when I was probably too young to know that I was definitely too young to know what I was talking about."  
        Tyrion paused, repeating her sentence to himself to make sure that he didn't get caught in the circle she was spinning. When he was sure he understood, he leaned forward and kissed her hand. There were no words. If that was even a little bit true, he was not going to be the one to suggest otherwise. "You know, I helped him design her not-ring."  
        "You did?"  
        "Indeed. A Lannister always pays their debts," he said.  
        Sansa smiled at him. He may not have believed himself to be an honorable man, but there was no denying that that value certainly fell under the title honor. "And brilliant men, who also happen to be incredibly thoughtful in matters of the heart, help their friends to woo the Lady Fair."  
        He laughed. "I suppose." Somewhere in whichever Hell his sister landed in, she had to be screaming about Robert's bastard ending up a friend and good brother to him. How had he missed, along the way, that Gendry was at the very least his step-nephew? Truthfully, since word had come out about his lineage, he'd wondered if maybe Cersei's first-born son hadn't been stillborn at all. He remembered talk of the child, but Cersei had never let anyone see him.   
         Wouldn't that have been something?   
        Were that true, Sansa's whole life would have been different. Prince Gendry would never, ever have been the tyrannical prick Joffrey was, even under Cersei and Robert's tutelage. He'd have been gentle and dutiful and Sansa would have gotten the keys to the kingdom at 14 and never had to experience any of this.   
        Even if Sansa could look at Tyrion now and see the man of her dreams, it didn't help either of them to lie and say that she'd take her history all over again to have him still, he thought. He stroked his thumb over her hand, still in his. He looked at her, his beautiful wife, weakened and so-recently heartsick over the ghosts of her past. He would do anything to rid her of them for good.  
        "Are you alright?" Sansa questioned at his sudden silence.  
        His shoulder's slumped a little. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"  
        She pondered him briefly. "For days, you have. But I know you. Something's amiss." She brought their hands to her chest and leaned to him, trying to keep his gaze as he dodged it. "You can tell me. I won't break." She leaned back against the pillows and rested her hands against her stomach, focus never wavering from him. "You were afraid to lose me and now you're afraid to talk to me about it." He looked at her sadly. She really was too smart. "I love you, Tyrion. Just tell me."  
        Tyrion stared at a point on the bed between them for a long time, readying his words. He saw little use in avoiding the topic if she was willing to discuss it. He gave a tense sigh. "Gone. Twice, now, I've gotten news that you were gone." He was, truthfully, growing to hate that word. "The first time, Podrick told me. I was imprisoned and couldn't do anything to find you. To protect you from my sister and her goons. Little did I know that Cersei was the very last thing I needed to protect you from." He finally raised his gaze to her, trying his best not to make things harder by bringing up old wounds. "This time. This time was different. It was your sister who told me. And that she was afraid for you, Sansa. Arya, fiercely strong Arya wrote to me and said 'I'm afraid for her.' I hadn't been sure that the girl could feel fear, but your absence made her claim it." He loosed an uneven breath through his nose. "And I got to you as fast as I could, but Sansa, you were so cold. You were half dead." The image of Sansa, pale and floating in that pond, was something that had scarcely left his mind. "This was something that I could have helped. Your nightmares had gotten worse and you weren't sleeping and there were other changes... you needed me and I wasn't there." His voice trembled and tears threatened to fall from his eyes. "I almost lost you. Again! Sansa, you could have died. I've never in my life been more afraid than I was in those few minutes between pulling you from that pond and getting you in to Winterfell. Never." He shook his head. Not in the battle of the Blackwater, not in the cells of King's Landing, not captured by the Stark armies or in the sky cells of the Eyrie. Not under threat or accusation. Not even in Slaver's bay or witnessing the fire and fury Daenerys wielded. He had been arrogant, surely, but in none of the times he'd been so close to death had he truly known fear. "I had either accepted my fate or knew I could talk my way out of it. Death is not something you can talk your way out of. I am your husband. I wrapped you in my cloak and swore to protect you and I couldn't."  
        "I don't need protection."   
        "No, I know that. Maybe that's not the word. Just... help, then, I suppose. Support"   
        She reached out a hand to meet his cheek, forcing his eyes to meet hers. "I love you. You're torturing yourself over something that you could not have helped," she urged.  
        Tyrion sured himself for a question he didn't ever want to ask, and wasn't entirely sure how he would respond were he to get the answer he so desperately feared. "Were you trying to kill yourself?"  
        "No," she assured. "No, I was afraid and I ran. That was never my intention," she said, her eyes never leaving his. All Sansa could do now was hope, beyond sense, that her explanation would calm him. "It was only once I entered the water that I realized what had happened. I guess, what I'd done. I was awake and dreaming and the water woke me up." She remembered the all-too-recent chill and inched herself closer to her husband. "The water may have awakened me, but Tyrion, you saved me." He exhaled in disbelief, slouching a little at her insistence. He began to cry; his emotions so raw he didn't know which was truly the culprit. She pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. "If you hadn't been there, I would have died. You talk about protecting me as though you never have, but you always do. You always have." Tears pricked at her eyes, too. "You may not see yourself as the shining white knight, Tyrion Lannister, but you are to me."  
       He shook his head in disbelief. "After everything that's happened..." He finally allowed himself to really look at his wife; To look, and truly see that she meant every last word of it. After everything that had happened, everything they'd been through, she truly meant that. "Sansa, I love you," he sobbed, wrapping her in his arms as tightly as he could. "Please, don't scare me like that again."  
        "I won't. I won't, I swear it."  
        They stayed like that for a long time, just holding each other. And little by little, the world started to make sense again.

        A few nights later, things were largely back to normal. Perhaps not entirely, but they were getting there. Court had resumed, with the Lord of Winterfell at the helm in his wife's absence. Though she was getting stronger by the day, she still was not well enough to return. Tyrion returned late, having found himself in the midst of a heated debate with the rest of the high table as to the merits of a sewage system. Two for, one staunchly against, and Bran's silent abstinence could not an agreement make. They were all exhausted and eventually decided that holding off wouldn't hurt since no advancements could truly be made until the next thaw. Looking disheveled, Tyrion tried to enter their room as silently as possible. The fireplace was burning brightly and the Lady of Winterfell had moved to sit on a stool in front of it. An empty one sat beside her, awaiting him. "Sansa, it's late," he said, casting off his vest and kicking out of his shoes as he walked toward her. "Why are you still awake?" He pressed a kiss to her cheek and sat beside her, leaving his hand to rest at her neck. Her simple shift, oft-worn, clung more tightly to her curves in the firelight than he'd ever remembered seeing it before. He shook the lustful thoughts from his head. She was certainly not well enough to entertain such dalliances yet.  
        "Just reading," she gestured to the book in her lap.   
        "Oh?" he asked, pretending not to recognize the volume. "Anything interesting?" He pushed her hair, tied in a broad singular braid, to one side and began to rub small circles with his thumb at a spot on her shoulder he knew to be particularly bothersome to her.  
        Her expression was unreadable as she answered. "I suppose not to you. It's a book of songs." She looked to him, raising an eyebrow, almost accusingly. "I am always curious to see what distortions the people make about things that are none of their concern."  
        "They are good at that," he quipped, seeming not to notice her point. He added his other hand, moving them both down her back to knead between her shoulder blades.  
        "As you are at that," she confessed. "Lower, please?"  
        "As you wish," he obeyed. He brought his hands to the small of her back. "Here?"  
        She hummed her answer with a nod. She'd had the strangest ache at the small of her back for days, presumably her muscles reacting to the cold only to be met immediately with inactivity. She closed her eyes, enjoying his touch very much. After a moment, she continued. "There seems to be a page missing, though. Which is a shame..."  
        "Is there?" he asked, feigning innocence. "I have to wonder why one would ever feel the need to destroy a book?"  
        "Perhaps it spoke ill of them?" she suggested. "Or their siblings?"  
        He sighed, knowing he'd been caught. "Books don't speak."  
        Sansa shook her head, laughing a little. "Tyrion..." she turned to face him and rested her hand on his thigh. "Let me guess. You were so shaken by the gossip-laden accounts of _Hands of Gold_ and weren't sure if it was about Jaime or you or some strange amalgamation of the two that you didn't even bother to read the next page."  
        "There's nothing anyone has left to say about the Lannisters that hasn't already been said," he answered, feeling a more than a little exposed by her astute reading.   
        "Is that so?" she sing-songed. "Now, I don't recall much of the first part, but the end is pretty amusing." She cleared her throat a little, repeating from memory. "The wolf, she howls. The lion does roar. The wolf lets her in. The lion runs in through the door. The real fun begins. As they both rush upon you and rip open your flesh. The lion eats her fill and then the wolf cleans up the mess. The lion's outside of your door. The wolf's in your bed.'" Tyrion gulped a little, not loving the allusions to such a vicious nature. "Interesting imagery, don't you think?" Sansa asked, nudging him.  
        "Certainly paints a picture," he blushed.  
        Sansa took a deep breath and leaned to him. "But songs of war aren't necessarily what I'd imagined the people to sing, if ever they sang of me." Tyrion felt thoroughly guilty for the side by side comparison. Surely, they were fierce both separately and together, but when a young lady dreams of a song... "But, that actually doesn't speak of me. Or you," she laughed, brushing his curls from in front of his sad eyes. "Neither of us are much fit for battle." He eyed her curiously. "Paints a pretty picture of Arya and Brienne, though." The lion and the wolf. _Well, yes, it appears that Brienne is a lion, after all, isn't she?_ he realized. Though Sansa's station afforded her the opportunity to keep her family name, Brienne had indeed taken the Lannister surname, both out of propriety and to make sure that little Jaime would need no legitimization.  
        "Ah. Yes," he noted, suddenly a little calmer, "the two finest warriors of our time."  
        Smiling and bringing Tyrion closer, Sansa lowered her voice. "Do you want to hear the other?"  
        "I'm not sure I do," Tyrion admitted.  
        "Humor me?" she asked. "'The snow falls all round a Southern town. The man, he groans. 'How unfair.' He once had a wife, was the love of his life, but bore him no fondness did she.'" Sansa sang, truly sang, for the first time in many years. Tyrion was taken aback a little. She wasn't just reciting it. She'd heard the song somewhere, too. "'The snow falls all round a Northern town. The lady cries, 'woe is me. I once had a husband. I bore him no trust and now he is lost to duty.' Now, sing me no stories, I'll tell you no lies, but the man he rides to her side.'" Tyrion found himself wondering how exactly that had happened. Had a minstrel appeared in her court one day and begun to sing to her of someone who he'd crossed on the road? He imagined the way her face must have lit up, realizing that it was about them. "Now sing me no stories, I'll tell you no lies, but the man, he rides to her side. The snow falls all round a Winter town, and with his lady, he'll stay evermore. She's no more contrary, for her love's so rare he tastes not but her lips, full and pure. Now, sing me no stories, I'll tell you no lies, but the man he stays by her side. Now, sing me no stories, I'll tell you no lies, but the man he stays by her side.'" She finished her song- _their song-_ and kissed him, smile unwavering.  
        Tyrion couldn't help himself but to kiss her again. "And who, pray tell, is this lucky man?" he asked coyly.  
        "I love you. The kind of love they write songs about." She placed her hand flat on his chest. "Tyrion, in a million lives, neither of us could have predicted where we'd end up, but you have to believe me when I say that there is no one in any version of any reality that I would rather have by my side." She kissed him once more before returning to her book. She thumbed through it to a page emblazoned with a red and black dragon and motioned to it. "There's also a rather colorful one about Daenerys and Jon. Rhymes nicely, but... well..."  
        Tyrion's eyes widened, reading a rather lewd verse. "Oh! That's a picture as well," he said, pulling back and rubbing his eyes, hoping to scrub the words from his sight. "One I'd like to burn from my mind." Sansa laughed at his reaction, recalling a rather tawdry use of the word and its companion stanza's even less ladylike rhyme. Realizing what he said, he grimaced. "Not burn. Bad choice of words. Horrible really."  
        "Poetry may not be your calling, then, husband," she teased, petting his arm fondly.  
        "No. No, my words aren't pretty," he admitted, finally uncovering his eyes and seeing not images of the queen and her nephew, but his beautiful wife. "You, on the other hand. You are more lovely than any painting," he reached his hand for hers and kissed it. "Any poem," he moved forward and kissed her shoulder even more gently. "Any song," and once more to her jaw.   
        She blushed fiercely, heat sweeping over her whole body for the first time in a long time. "You flatter me," she said, bringing her hand to her husband's face and tilting his head gently to examine him. "Have you avoided mirrors long?"  
        "My Lady," he said, trying to avoid her praise.   
        Sansa chewed at her lower lip for a moment, thinking. "Your strong arms. Your defined jaw, even through your manly, full beard," she suggested, twisting an elongated piece of his facial hair between her fingers. "Those beautiful, sad green eyes." Sad green eyes that he rolled in disbelief of her claims. She trailed her hand delicately from his beard to his hair. "These curls. I could keep my hands in them forever." He reacted involuntarily to her touch. _It's been so long, Sansa. Don't tease,_ he thought. "You are ruggedly handsome. Especially with the scar," she added, brushing her fingers across it lightly. "I've known many women to say it."  
        "Name one."  
        "Me."  
        "That would be the most important one."  
        He kissed her deeply. They would go no further that night, both wary of the other's hesitance. But, _Gods_ , did they both want to.


	13. knew right from the start that you'd fall apart

> I have never let anything have this much control over me.  
> I worked too hard to call my life my own.  
> I made myself a world & it worked so perfectly  
> It's your world now. I can't refuse. I never had so much to lose.  
> I'm shameless.  
> You know it should be easy for a man who's strong to say he's sorry   
> or admit when he's wrong.  
> I've never lost anything I ever missed but I've never been in love like this  
> God, it's out of my hands.  
> \- Shameless, Billy Joel

  
        If it isn't one thing, it's another. The first morning Sansa woke up feeling as though she might be able to venture from her bed, she got no further than the dressing screen and felt her stomach lurch. She sat down in the chair by the fireplace and gripped the armrests firmly. Tyrion had mentioned the night prior that much of town had come down with some sort of illness, but she'd assumed her seclusion would leave her spared of it. Nevertheless, she found herself hunched over the mop bucket left stored under the bed before long. As the contents of her stomach reappeared, she cursed herself for allowing herself to be available for such sickness. She was ordinarily so heartily Northern that these indecencies didn't reach her. Tyrion came back after breaking his fast and fussed over her for a bit. She shooed him, not wishing to make him ill. He promised to return and bring her mid-day meal to her.  
        She relaxed back into the chair and closed her eyes, dozing back off, only opening them to a knock at her bedroom door. "Jon!" she shrieked, smiling at her brother's entrance.  
        He moved immediately to her side and hugged her tight. "I'm sorry it took so long. Are you well, Sansa?"  
        "I am," she said, relaxing back into the chair as he sat opposite her on the bed.   
        "You look flush," he stated, carefully observing her.   
        Sansa nodded. "I'll admit, in my weakened state, I believe I've come down with whatever it is that the rest of Winterfell has," she sighed, resting her head against the back of the chair with a thud. "Some sort of indignifiable stomach malady. You'd likely be best to stay away," she warned, gesturing for him to sit back.  
        Instead, he leaned in. "You're my little sister." He dropped his voice, whispering as though some invisible person would admonish his secret. "It would not be the first time you've been ill on my shoulder."  
        Nudging her brother with her foot, she simply replied, "You're incorrigible."  
        "In fact," he laughed, leaning to his side against the footboard, "I seem to recall, dear sister, that you insisted, at all of eleven and never having taken any past a tablespoon medicinally, that you could keep up with Robb, Theon, and me on a night where copious amounts of Wildberry Wine was consumed. You did well, at first, but insisted that you wanted to dance. One spin and half of my shirt was dyed a wild purple."   
        A furious blush crossed her cheeks. "As I recall, you received three brand new ones the following week in apology."  
        "That I did, and you then vowed to only drink wine when you had to." The memory was one of a rare few he had of Sansa not copying her mother's icy vitriol towards him. Sansa, too, looked back at the night fondly. She'd decided that she wanted to see why Arya enjoyed her brothers more than she enjoyed her and it did afford her an image of them, young and free and very much alive, before any of them had tasted what the world would come to offer them. "Truly, Sansa, are you alright? You gave us all quite a scare."  
        "I suppose I gave myself a scare." His sad eyes seemed even more so at her admission. She felt implored to tell him everything. She recounted the whole day, the man's attack, the execution, how she'd insisted upon doing it herself, the flashback, the panic, the fear and the way her shaky mind had made her relive everything at lightning speed. She told him how even though she had entered the water of her own accord, she had been growing delirious and hadn't realized what she'd done until it was too late.   
Jon had heard her stories before. He'd seen the innocent little girl leave Winterfell for King's Landing. He'd seen the shattered woman Ser Brienne had brought to Castle Black. He'd seen her grow into the relentlessly fierce woman who tore into him at every turn for bending the knee and abandoning the North in service of Daenerys. Still, hearing it all again brought back the one thing he'd been wondering since she'd written for Tyrion. "May I ask a question without you getting upset with me or seeing it as an attack?"  
Chewing at her lip, she thought for a moment. At this point, she knew leaving it unasked would only eat away at them both. "I make no promises, but implore you to ask anyway," she said.  
        "Let me preface this by saying that I like Tyrion. I do," he assured, causing her to furrow her brow in a growing concern. "But how is it that you can, after everything that you've suffered at the hands of the Lannisters, choose to remain married to one?"  
        Sansa took a deep breath, leaning back into the pillows. She should have known, really. "Father's ghost again?" She raised an eyebrow and he hung his head as he laughed. She really was too smart. Sansa crossed her arms in mild indignation. "You know, I have grown weary of this type of question. He's not his name," she said, voice belaying the frustration she felt every time someone didn't see what she saw. "He's not his father or his sister or his nephew. So much stock is placed in the preservation of the Great Houses as if the ambition it brings isn't the reason they require preserving in the first place." She rolled her eyes, staring at the canopy before focusing back on Jon. "I'll grant you, he is not without his faults. Who among us is?" she asked and her knowing glance caused her brother to look away. "Tyrion as much a victim of their cruelty as I am, if not more. His was long suffered and formative. Mine was abrupt and traumatic. I won't presume to compare the two. Dogs do not make cats, I know, but..." she trailed off. She wasn't making sense, but since when had love had to make sense? "Look, you mentioned to me once, a long time ago, that I spoke as though I admired Cersei. That will never be the case, but there are qualities that the Lannisters hold dear as much as there are those that the Starks do, and they're not all fury and deceit. He's loyal and passionate and intelligent and careful. Jon, you know all of this. You've worked by his side for years now," she reminded him. "The fact is that I love him. And you know he loves me. So, what difference does it make, really?"  
        "I just care about you is all," he said, resting his hand on her knee.  
        She patted his hand lightly. "Jon, I'm fine. You needn't worry about me. I'm well taken care of here," she said, looking up at the door as it clicked open, knowing fully who was behind it. She nodded to draw Jon's attention to the new voice as well, as if to say _See what I mean?_  
         "Sansa, are you feeling..." he started, carrying in a tray with gingerroot tea, a clear broth, and some bread, something light for an unsettled stomach. Realizing they weren't alone, he placed the tray on the bedside table and offered a hand to the visitor. "Jon, it's about time you showed your sullen face."  
        "Right," he laughed, realizing that he'd said he'd be just behind nearly a week earlier. "The people of Laithenstone decided they wanted a representative of the queen to stay until the first wave of supplies arrived."  
        Tyrion nodded, leaning against the side of the chair. "I should have supposed that that would happen."  
        "You were otherwise occupied," he said, eyes flicking once, not-so-subtly, to Sansa.  
        Sansa smirked, reaching her hand for Tyrion's. "I am an occupation all to myself, it seems." Her expression changed from sarcasm to genuine apology.  
        "So nothing has changed," Tyrion laughed, smoothing her hair down with his free hand.  
        Watching Tyrion dote on his Sansa truly warmed Jon's heart. He'd had a fair bit of observation of both of them independently. He remembered the way Tyrion's questions about Sansa's well-being upon their earliest of meetings, while good-natured, were tinged with a combination of genuine affection and pain. Jon hadn't noticed it then, but in the period of time before he headed North to Winterfell, convinced that she wanted an annulment, Jon could see the heartbreak as plain as anything. What little he could manage to free from Sansa's mind without making her uncomfortable back then, she seemed, too, to hold Tyrion in such high esteem. He'd never been good at reading her, but it almost seemed like she missed him, too. It didn't make sense to him before, but now... Now, he knew. They were truly in love. "It pleases me to see you both so happy. You deserve it," he said, finally.  
        The couple both looked at him and considered his comment for a moment, before turning to each other with sarcastic indifference before sharing a warm smile.

        After dinner, Arya and Brienne went back to check on Sansa. Tyrion, Jon, and Gendry found themselves hanging around the kitchen with far, far too much wine. "Have I ever told you..." Tyrion started as he poured another round for them all.  
        "Jackass and the Honeycomb? Yes. I believe you've told everyone with ears," Gendry answered unimpressed from his spot by the hearth, stoking the fire. Jon gestured agreement from where he was perched on the countertop between baskets of fruits and vegetables. "Little Jaime is perhaps the only one who hasn't heard it. And I believe you'd be right to never tell her."  
        "I suppose that's true," he slurred. "But no. Have I ever told you..."  
        Jon sighed, leaning so he was at eye level with his friend, nearly toppling over. "Does it have to do with my sister, because Tyrion, I like you well enough, but I don't need to hear any..."   
        "No," Tyrion gasped, sitting back on a crate and propping his feet up on another. "Well, it does but it wouldn't be that kind of story. I don't tell those stories." He considered his statement, then took it back. "I do... But not about Sansa. Especially to people with proclivities such as yours." Jon lobbed an apple at him, nailing him squarely in the chest. "Ah. I deserved that," he admitted, rubbing the point of impact with a pout before picking the fruit up, observing it.  
        "Out with it, then..." he grabbed the basket, guarding his ammunition threateningly.  
        "I believe that I would give up anything at all to stay with her. She has me completely tamed and I don't mind one bit," Tyrion said. He wanted to suggest to Jon that he wished not to be Hand of the Queen any longer, but his nerve failed him. Truthfully, he saw a simmering rage in Jon that worried him. He thought better of his admission and swerved to a more expected course. A devious thought crossed his drunken mind. He looked at his brother in law and raised an eyebrow unnoticed before staring back at the apple. "And her tits..." he growled, voice tinged with teasing awe.   
        "What did I say?" Jon groaned, whipping a second at him.  
        "I jest. Sort of."  
        Unexpectedly, Gendry chimed in. "My betrothed has the firmest ass," he said, earning himself an apple which he caught effortlessly.  
        "Does she?" Tyrion asked, propping his chin on his hand and taking a bite of one of the apples. "I've never been one to fall for a firm ass. I like my women softer." He demonstrated the roundness of a bottom and feigned a squeeze. "A pleasure to watch as they walk. Something to grab."  
        Putting down the basket and leaning forward, all business. "Do we want to play this game? Alright, well, my aunt's cunt tastes-"  
        "Gods, Jon!"  
        Tyrion threw his hands in the air in surrender.  "Okay, I yield. I yield!"  
        "Sore subject, brother?" Jon asked, proud of himself for seemingly putting an end to the discussion of his little sisters' bodies.   
        "You're incorrigible," Tyrion nodded.  
        Jon scoffed. "Your wife said that to me earlier."  
        "Moving on from your aunt to your cousin? Sisters are more a Lannister trait," Tyrion scorned mockingly. "I'll warn you, Snow, I'm not a man who likes to share. Perhaps Gendry would," he gestured to the young Smith. "His father never seemed to mind."  
        "Baratheons are a giving folk, just not of our ladies. My father didn't seem to notice for seeking of less Lannithery..." Gendry slurred, paused, then tried again, "Lanistarry... Fuck it. Women who weren't your sister."   
        The three men broke into a fit of laughter. "Easy there, before you hurt yourself," Tyrion said, anchoring himself against the crate with one hand and offering the other to Gendry as he almost upended himself into the hearth. "Ah. Yes, well. I believe you'd find it interesting..."  
        "Do the three of you not have something better to discuss?" came an unamused voice from the doorway. "You reek of drink. I can smell it from the hall," Sansa said through clenched teeth. She had been standing in clear view of the men for what felt like an eternity and suddenly felt her entire mood drop.   
        "That would be the wine," Jon said, offering his glass to her. She simply stared until he put it down, shying back.  
        The woman willed herself to stay calm, but the sight of the three men absolutely slovenly drunk put her ill-at-ease. Still, she kept as even of a tone as she could.  "Indeed. Have we any stores left or have you drunk us dry?" She clasped her hands together and hung them in front of her gently as she moved into the room and addressed her brother and incipient good brother. "I'd have expected more of you two."  
        "Sorry, Lady Stark," Jon said, feeling very much like Lady Catelyn was staring at him as opposed to Sansa.  
        "I am a man, My Lady," Gendry shrugged.   
        She exhaled sharply through her nose. "So it seems. Just like all the rest." She turned to face her husband, seeing very much the same man who passed out on their wedding night. "It has gotten very late. I came to see if you were coming to bed, but perhaps..."  
        "How long were you standing there?" he interrupted, baffled at her ability to stalk in the shadows.  
        Her jaw clamped shut for a moment as she stared him down. "Long enough to know that you'll have nothing to _grab_ tonight, but that you should be pleased enough upon my exit." And she did just that without another word.  
        Tyrion watched her walk away, but found himself not pleased in the least. Scared, ashamed, and suddenly much more sober, but nowhere near pleased. The three men sat in stunned silence for a few minutes. More accurately, Jon and Tyrion sat stunned. Gendry had seemingly fallen asleep.  
        "You should go talk to her," Jon said, eventually. He, too, was feeling much sobered by her lecture and didn't want to see her hurt.  
        "And say what, may I ask?"  
        "Say, 'I'm sorry, Sansa,'" he suggested flatly. "Say, 'I love you, Sansa.' Say, 'I'll try to be better, Sansa.' And then you are. And you do. And you will."  
        Tyrion closed his eyes and threw his head back, exasperated. "I'm loathe to take marriage advice from a man who's taken a vow of celibacy not once but now twice."  
        "The kind of advice you don't like to take often turns out to be the best," he shrugged.  
        "You're still a bastard," Tyrion said, offering his hand to Jon to shake.  
        Jon returned the gesture, grasping his wrist. "You're still an imp."  
        "You're both pathetic," Gendry slurred, apparently alive at least.  
        "Make sure he gets back to Arya," he called over his shoulder upon his exit.  
        The once King In The North hopped off the counter and hoisted Gendry to his feet, expecting his night's end to be much differently received than it had been at the beginning.

        Tyrion crept into their chambers to find not a candle alight. The embers in the fireplace dwindled. Sansa's silhouette was visible in the bed, her back to the door. "Sansa, are you still awake?" Tyrion climbed into the bed and reached a hand to her waist gently. "Sansa?" She sat up immediately and removed herself from the bed, folding her arms across her chest and looking into the fire. "I deserve that," he said, still on his knees in the middle of the bed. He couldn't bring himself to follow her. If she was still angry enough to pull away from his touch, he knew it wouldn't be that easy.  
        "Don't," she said, shaking her head.  
        "Don't what?"  
        She covered her eyes with a hand, trying not to let her frustration get the better of her. "Don't belittle yourself," she paused, pointed at him over her shoulder, silencing his oncoming jab about his own stature. "And _don't_ try to charm me."  
        His mouth, which had already opened when interrupted, clasped shut. He smiled, despite himself. She knew him too well. "I'm sorry, Sansa," was all he could bring himself to say.  
        "For what?"  
        Tyrion's eyes widened a little. "For..." Truthfully, he wasn't entirely sure. He was sorry she was angry. Sorry she'd heard.   
        Silence filled the room. Sansa wanted so badly for him to give the right answer. When he didn't offer any answer, her shoulders dropped. "You don't even know why I'm angry, do you?" Still nothing. She finally turned back to him, the sadness in her eyes visible even in near darkness. "Do you still make habit of speaking of women in such a manner? Of me?"  
        "No," he said, taken aback. "And never with people that I believe will misconstrue my intention."   
        She took a step toward him. "Which is what, exactly?  
        Tyrion shrugged, rolling his head to the side a little. "That my wife is more beautiful than any other. That I love my wife more than they love theirs," he moved to the edge of the bed and reached his hand to her. She didn't take it. "That my wife is far superior in every imaginable way."  
        "You have a funny way of demonstrating it, then," she said. Sansa's anger began to wane. She sat next to him. "I won't pretend to say that women don't discuss such matters with one another, but in my limited experience, it is either to teach or in awe. Not... that. Not whatever that was. That was much rougher than I'd thought any of you were capable." She sighed, resting her head in her hands, chasing off a headache. "That didn't sound like three men who love their wives or betrothed or... Queens. That sounded like men at a brothel talking about their conquests." Her stomach flipped threateningly. "Men _forced_ into marrying a child who wouldn't even _look_ at them. Men who view women as objects to be had."  
        Tyrion's heart ached. That hadn't even occurred to him. "Sansa..." he said gently, reaching his hand for her again. She rested her hand atop his.  
        "It's a different story when the women you're talking about are sitting next to you and taking equal part in the conversation, Tyrion. Then, you're not stripping away the ability for the person you're speaking of grabbing's ability to tell you to keep your hands to yourself," she said, willing the renewed churning in her belly to cease.  
        "I love you, Sansa. I do," he said, leaning toward her, meaning to kiss her cheek, but she pulled back. The heavy stench of wine on his breath too much for the renewed nausea. Tyrion looked slightly hurt by her resistance. "You do believe that, still, don't you."  
        "I do. Of _course_ , I do. That's not a question," she sighed, covering the base of her nose with the back of her hand. "And you're far more drunk than I thought if you're questioning that. And it doesn't change that I love you. But I'm still angry."   
        He hung his head, sadly. "I'll be better, Sansa," he said, cursing himself silently for returning to his drunken ways.   
        "Oh, Tyrion, You've been amazing. I haven't heard you speak that way-" she thought, back, unsure of whether or not she'd ever heard him speak that way in person. "Since our wedding, I suppose," she said, finally. "I do believe that is the last time you were that drunk in my presence." Sansa closed her eyes and rose to fetch the bucket from the corner so that, should she have to be sick again, it was nearby. "If you wish not for me to be ill on you," she warned, placing it on the hope chest. "I'd suggest you keep a distance until the smell is no longer on your skin."  
        Doing as she suggested, Tyrion stood up and crossed to the chair, readying it for his make-shift bed. "Can you forgive me?" he asked, turning back to her.  
        Sansa sighed, crawling into bed alone. "Of course. Just..." she stammered, not sure what else to say to a sleepy, drunken husband. "Try not to be that way. I don't appreciate it," she said, not allowing herself to dwell on the why.  
        Tyrion readied for sleep, all the while chastising himself for his stupidity. Sansa, on the other hand, immediately regretted being so angry, but she was just so hurt. They both stayed silent for some time; Sansa in the bed, Tyrion in the chair. _She looks so upset,_ he thought. _He looks so cold,_ she thought.   
        After a short while longer, she dropped her defenses. Sansa reached her hand out to him and gestured for him to join her. She moved back, allowing space for him as he climbed in to join her. He traced her open palm with his fingertips before lacing their fingers together. Sansa's lips turned upward into the slightest hint of a smile. She moved their joined hands to her chest and rested them there, his hand against her heart where it would always belong


	14. your talk'll be something that shouldn't be said out loud

> I've been settling scores. I've been fighting so long.  
> But I've lost your war and our kingdom is gone.  
> How shall I win back your heart which was mine?  
> I have broken bones and tattered clothes. I've run out of time.  
>  -Run To You, Pentatonix

        Sansa rose early, grateful that the previous day's nausea had much subsided. She donned her thick red dressing gown over her empire-waisted grey shift and went down to the kitchen and broke her fast alone, not wanting to disturb her husband. Secretly, she admitted, she still needed some time to process her anger from the previous night. She wanted to call it an argument, but that didn't seem true in the strictest sense of the word.  If he had been angry or done something especially untoward, her reaction would have been appropriate.   
        In the morning light, she didn't believe it truly was.   
        After a bit of solitude, she returned to their chambers to find Tyrion still abed. She sat at her vanity table and stared at herself for a moment, dropping her dressing gown to her elbows. Something was different, she decided. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something was definitely different. Resetting the silken garment where it belonged, she brushed the whole matter aside. _You're overreacting, Sansa,_ she thought. _You've had a very trying couple of weeks. Perhaps it's some last step towards settling becoming a more settled, married Lady. A sense of peace with your past or some such notion._   
        Beside her, she noted her husband stirring to life. She rounded the bed and filled a cup with water from the pitcher on the bedside table. She sat by his side, hands folded around the vessel. Tyrion's eyes opened to find Sansa watching him. "Drink this," she said, offering it to him. "Just water, I'm afraid, but it is the best cure for the headache you'll have today." She placed her hand gently on his shoulder for the briefest of times before withdrawing it.  
        "Alas, my love, my head no longer aches from drink. The years have afforded me a tolerance for it," he said, leaning up and taking a sip.  
        Sansa considered him for a moment before admitting, "I suppose they have."  
        He replaced the cup on the table and sat up with a groan. "Sansa, I am sorry," he said genuinely. "Sorry for everything."   
        She hung her head, still ashamed of how she'd reacted. She rested her hand on his thigh. "I know, Tyrion." He moved as though to speak and then clamped his mouth shut. He looked at her sadly, then down at the mattress between them. Sansa moved closer, adjusting herself into his forlorn gaze. "Oh, stop that. It was an argument. I was..." She stopped, searching her mind for the words. "I don't know what I was. We've joked like that among ourselves before. I believe it was that you were saying such things without Arya, Daenerys or myself being there to stand up for ourselves. I suppose." Now, it was Sansa avoiding eye contact. "I mean to apologize to both Jon and Gendry today and-"  
        "Sansa, I didn't mean it that way. I meant grab as a substitute for touch. I would never, ever mean it as forcefully. You know that, don't you?" His deep voice was hardly above a whisper.  
        "Tyrion, I-" she stammered. Of _course_ she knew that. It didn't stop her mind from suggesting that he did. _So much for that peace, Sansa,_ she thought. "You must think I'm awful for the thought even crossing my mind."  
        He shook his head. "Not even a little bit. I'm unbelievably stupid for not realizing. But, Sansa, my not realizing is because using force is the farthest thing from my mind. Ever. It's been almost nine years since our wedding night, Sansa." Her face brightened. Often, she'd heard ladies lamenting their husbands' forgetfulness for dates. Anniversaries, name days... But Tyrion knew theirs. All the time that had passed, all the distance, and he remembered. "Nine years, come the end of the week- you thought I forgot, did you?" He teased, noting the broad smile that was creeping its way to her beautiful face. He sighed, grateful to finally see that smile again- a stark contrast to the night before. "It's been nine years and any time the situation has arisen, I have never once thought to do so without your express consent. I would never do that, Sansa." He desperately wished to reach out and hold her, but couldn't bring himself to. Not if she was still even a little angry. The memory of her retracting from his touch the night prior was still fresh in his mind, even if she had since made her own advancements.  
        "I know that. I do. I just..."  
        He smiled knowingly. "You don't mean it against me." Tyrion stared at his wife for a moment, a softness in his eyes causing her stomach to flutter. "Sansa, I love you. I know you. You cannot help the way you react to certain things. I don't blame you for it." Sansa didn't seem convinced and opened her mouth to object. "I know Jon and Gendry don't either." He reached for her, hand almost touching her waist, but quickly withdrew.  
        "Oh, put your hands where you'd like," she laughed, taking his hands in hers and placing them at the small of her back. She closed the, now very slight, gap between their mouths with a passionate kiss, happy to finally be rid of the heaviness that loomed between them since the night prior.  
        "Speaking of hands..." Tyrion began, pulling back from the kiss. "I've been thinking quite a lot recently. What I decided against telling Jon, which led our conversation astray, is that I am rather enjoying being your husband and rather not enjoying being Hand of the Queen." He propped himself back against the pillows thoughtfully. "I wonder, what would you say if I decided to resign from my post?"  
        Sansa's eyes grew wide. What would she say? _'About time!'_ came to mind, but she knew it couldn't just be that he was done with the position. "First, I would ask if it was because of me? Because, Tyrion, I am well, I swear it. My strength comes back more with each passing day. And if you were sure that you were doing it only because you truly wish to do so," she placed her palm flat on his chest, realizing just how quickly she'd been speaking, and stilled herself. "If that were the case, I'd ask- rather enthusiastically- Is that something you can do?"  
        "If it were decided that I should, I don't believe there's a person alive who could stop me."  
        She smiled, shaking her head in disbelief. "And you could live with that? Just being Lord of Winterfell and my husband?"  
        Tyrion rested his head to the side, amazed at how she could quantify that life in such a way. "I think that neither of those titles would beget a 'just' from me. Lord of anything is not expected of a youngest son and family joke." Sansa gave him the smallest of shoves, still unhappy with how readily he demeaned himself. "Even so, I'd be happy to be your husband in a wood hut in Essos and ask for nothing more. And even more," he reached into the drawer of the bedside table and retrieved something small and shiny from a delicate linen pouch, "if you'd do me the honor of taking this ring as a token of my truest and deepest love for you. I'd meant to give it to you on our wedding anniversary, but..." he held it in his outstretched palm. It was just as he'd designed. Gendry had done truly remarkable work. Elegant swirls joined the bodies of a direwolf and lion in a small golden circle, embedded with beautiful satiny stones in red and grey. He slid his ring off of her finger and replaced it with the new one. "Do you like it?"  
        Sansa stared at it, unable to take her eyes off of it. "It's breathtaking," she said finally.  
        "You are breathtaking," he corrected.   
        Rolling her eyes, Sansa let out a puff of breath. "Surely not," she insisted. She didn't feel breathtaking at the moment.   
        Tyrion pulled her towards him, kissing her with such tenderness. "Would it please My Lady Wife if I told her all of the things that take my breath away?" he asked.  
        "It would," she gasped, feeling desire awaken within her.  
        "Are you sure it wouldn't offend?" he asked playfully, undoing her dressing gown and sliding it off. He kissed her shoulder, leaning up to reach her ear. "I daresay, many of these things could be deemed too filthy for someone so beautiful," he whispered.  
        "Try me," she dared.  
        "Very well. Since you seem so eager," he teased, lifting her shift over her head to appraise her. "I won't bother to praise the parts of you that could be praised by the masses; your mind, your humor... those are far too pedestrian." He lay her back across the bed and gazed upon her body, eyeing her frame with wonderment. He brought his hand first to her hair, untying the single braid in which she slept and brushing it out to lay in one soft curtain. "When your hair tumbles from its braids, cascading across your delicate shoulders, I find myself distracted by its sheen, jealous of its chance to tickle at the back of your neck whenever it pleases," he said, leaning in to demonstrate.  
        Sansa reacted to the chill but feigned disinterest. "As salacious a man, there never was..." she teased, "Wanton not but to tickle and caress."  
        He smiled, paying no heed to her jest. "The way your collarbone protrudes just so," he trailed his finger across as he spoke. "near enough to your neck that it begs to be kissed as well." He did just as he said, kissing both parts. "Your long neck. I find myself so often dreaming to kiss," he did, "to suck," he _did_ , causing a slight pleasured sigh to fall from the woman's mouth, and he stopped, "but I wouldn't mar your image with reminders of my unworthiness."   
        "Please..." she whispered  
        He continued, kissing a gentle trail from her shoulder to her ear. "Ah, is that something you desire?" She nodded, stretching her neck to give more surface for his work. "But isn't that a disservice to these soft, warm lips that serve to do their own teasing from time to time?" He thumbed gently at her lower lip, parting them slightly before kissing her deeply. He let his hands wander down, stopping at the fullness of her chest. "And what of your magnificent breasts?" he suggested. Her breath hitched as he cupped them, remembering just how sore they had been the past few days. Even though they were still, the sensation of his delicate touch brought her such pleasure that she didn't mind. "I would be a terrible liar if I lay claim for even a word that they weren't a cause of..." he said, voice trailing off as he stared. He brushed his fingers across her nipple and smiled as the bud grew taut. "Distraction. On a body so slender and fair that seems a road to travel on for ages and ages hence," he slid his hand from her breast, down her side, over her hips, and as far down her leg as he could reach before reversing the journey, bringing his hand back up. "I find myself wanting to stay nestled safely in the mountains so near to your heart." He placed a kiss between them. "I am a wicked man, Sansa, as I can't help but think that, in my absence, I've misremembered how beautiful and round they truly are." He demonstrated their roundness, filling his mouth with one. Sansa's back arched without her meaning to. "What truly takes my breath away is the way you react to me. So eager," Tyrion hummed, trailing his kisses down her abdomen to her legs. He brought his fingers to her center, feeling her slick from pleasure. "Somehow, you want me."   
        Sansa moaned as his fingers flicked lightly to trace her entrance. "Do I?" she asked, voice heavy and thick. "I think need is a closer phrase," she said, hands twisting into the sheets. "I need you, Tyrion." A hissed intake of breath filled his lungs as Tyrion's own pleasure began to rise as he watched her. "I need these glorious hands," her own finding their way to his arms. "Your touch completes me. It heals me," she thought aloud. She crooked her leg up around his waist, hips moving subconsciously. "Just the slightest brush of your skin on mine can drive me wild or put me at ease." She laced her fingers in his hair and kissed him. She kissed him and kissed him until she was dizzy. "This powerful mouth. Not just powerful with its words but how I feel its movements in my soul." Sansa dragged her hands down his bare chest, nails leaving light trails as she did. She hooked a finger into the waist of his breeches and smiled, looking at his hard length, still amazed by how she could do that to him and he didn't immediately lose control; that he never lost control. "That legendary cock." The word felt thick in her mouth, but the way Tyrion seemed to fill with a bit of pride at her use of it, whether the use or mention she couldn't be sure, she knew it got her point across. She rose to her knees, pressing her naked body against him, picking at the offending piece of fabric that kept her from what she so desperately wanted.  
        "Well, if you say so..." he said, a very self-important grin on his face. He slid the garment off and teased his member across her folds and she bristled at the sensation. "So sensitive today. How long has it been, my love?" he asked.  
        "Weeks," she moaned, pushing him down gently. "Six... No, seven weeks." She crawled over him, whining at the realization. "Seven very, very long weeks."   
        Tyrion laughed thickly. "I've been remiss," he said, pulling her closer, sliding himself inside her.  
        A satisfied smile played at her lips. "No, you've been patient. Always patient," she said, grinding against him instinctively, fingers teasing at his chest. "Always careful."  
        Feeling himself close to his own, long denied orgasm, he hissed, "Sansa, about that patience..."   
        "Oh, I'm sure you'll make it," she teased, lowering her mouth to his. She hesitated briefly, "You never disappoint, do you?" Sansa was, herself, close to her own finish. She kissed him, a wild moan growing deep in her throat.  
        Tyrion thrust hard against her, and she broke the kiss with a gasp as he began stroking her clit gently as he thrust, breaking her tension quickly. After a few seconds, Sansa gound herself on top of it once more, crying out as he spilled his seed inside of her.   
         Breathlessly, she dropped to her back beside him. He pressed a kiss against her sweat glistening arm. As her pulse came back to normal, Sansa felt an intense wave of emotion crash over her and she began to cry, laughing at the rush of it all.   
         "Sansa, are you..." Tyrion started, not really expecting what he found. "Are you crying? Why are you crying?" She just continued, leaning over to kiss him in response, still not having found her words. "Have I hurt you?" he asked, genuine concern overtaking him. "Sansa, talk to me," he implored, wiping the tears from her face.  
        "No, no, you blessed man," she laughed, trying to regain her composure. "Ladies cry, sometimes. This is a good cry." He was aware that women cried from joy sometimes, but in bed, that was never what he would expect. He'd prided himself on never causing tears in the bedroom. "Have you never made a wom..." The realization that, perhaps, he'd never known a lady to cry from pleasure suddenly dawned on Sansa. She'd known that it could happen and just assumed it was common. Maybe it only happens when there's been a considerable time between trysts, she thought. "Oh, my love, no. That was perfect," she assured, sweeping him in her arms, kissing him over and over again before readying herself to get up and face the day.  
  
        A short while later, as Sansa found herself losing her morning meal once again into a chamber pot, a dozen little moments began to whirl in her head as everything began to click into place like a well fit set of gears.  
        Oh.   
        _Oh._  
        Sansa's heart began to race with the realization. She made a point to pull Maester Ayn aside on her way to the meeting she found herself newly determined to attend that afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you guys were just a little bit ahead of our girl. Haha. But, yes, you guys were right!   
> As always, I'm so flattered by how much you guys seem to be enjoying this story! We're in the home stretch now, though. Just a couple more chapters.  
> Hopefully, before this is completely up, I'll have at least a one-shot ready to go up. I also have plans to expand this universe- some Arya and Gendry vignettes and a Jaime and Brienne prequel... but who knows. I actually have an entire folder sitting on my desktop right now entitled "GOT Fics exactly no one asked for Amanda" so... you know... This will probably not be the last you see of me. haha


	15. honestly i thought that i would be dead by now

> And if this child shares a fraction of your smile,  
> Or a fragment of your mind, look out world,  
> That would be enough  
> I don’t pretend to know the challenges you’re facing,  
> The worlds you keep erasing and creating in your mind.  
> But I’m not afraid. I know who I married.  
> So long as you come home at the end of the day...  
> That would be enough.  
> \- That Would Be Enough, Hamilton

        Two days later, Brienne headed down the stairs to the kitchen, finding some trepidation on her way. Sansa had sent for her to meet for lunch. She hadn't just come by or snagged her in the hall. It seemed urgent, so of course, she'd acquiesced, but she was worried. When she reached the base of the stairs, the table was set with a large spread and Sansa sat at the corner, fiddling with the table cloth, smiling absently. At the very least, she seemed happy.  
        "Brienne! Good morning!" Sansa called, rising to her feet and giving her friend a great hug.  
        Still bit wary, she agreed, "It is! Are you well?"  
        Sansa sat back down, gesturing for Brienne to do so as well, folding her hands in her lap. "Very. Are you?"  
        "Indeed."  
        The smile on her face grew a bit larger. "How is the sweetling?"  
        "Bigger by the day," Brienne nodded.  
        Looking at her hands, Sansa nodded, "It happens that way, doesn't it?"  
        She gave a brief report on Jaime's wellbeing and growth. "Everything's been so fast. I wish it would slow down just a little. She sits on her own now."  
        "Does she?" Sansa cooed.  
        "And she's such a little fighter."  
        Sansa laughed, leaning back in her chair. "I'd expect no less with her parents."  
        "There's so much of him in her," the knight said, face no longer falling into near tears at the topic of her departed husband. "I look at her and I know... I know he's here." Sansa reached a hand to her friend and grasped it, leaving them on the table. The pair sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, before Brienne gave in, seeing a question playing behind the younger woman's eyes. "This is strange. What troubles you, Sansa?"  
        She took a deep breath. She hadn't really thought about how to broach the topic. Sansa looked at her for a moment. "How did you..." her free hand, still under the table, rested low on her belly. "How did you know?"  
        "Know what?" Brienne asked.  
        "That little Jaime was with you," she shrugged.  
        Brienne smiled, leaning back in her chair, considering it. "Well, I was already showing before I'd realized. You and Arya both realized before I did." Sansa gave a small laugh. That much was true. She and Arya had taken turns making sure that Brienne was taking care of herself for a month before even suggesting it to her, resolved in their decision not to upset her more. "My turns have never been as reliable as many other women. I supposed I was sick with what I thought was grief? Ill then back to bed in vicious cycles. My chest, head and back ached, but I honestly thought that was just mourning..." She eyed her friend curiously, noting her head nods and the hand that still lay beneath the table. "Sansa, could you be?"  
        The smile she'd worn all along broke into an outright, baffled laugh. "I could," she admitted, finally saying it out loud to someone who wasn't Maester Ayn. Somehow, that made it all the more real. "The night before last, I realized that it had been some weeks since that became a possibility. My body is sore and tender. My breasts, especially," she said, meriting a broad laugh from Brienne. "And I've been ill most mornings this past fortnight and at various points throughout the day. There are smells that I've never had an aversion to that now make my head spin from nausea. My more formfitting clothes grow tighter, despite my inability to take food for much of the day. My moods have been changing with lack of any provocation. I sleep more than is proper. And it's been nearly two months since I've seen my red flower." Her list was so long, she couldn't believe she hadn't realized it earlier. "I went to the maester immediately, so yesterday and today and he had me take a test that involved a rather indecent treatment for seeds." She blushed just thinking about it. "I'm to do that for the remainder of the week and see if they begin to sprout."  
        "And?"  
        "And we wait..." Sansa said with a shrug.   
        Brienne leaned in and grasped her sister-in-law's hand. "Oh, Sansa, I hope you are. I can see in your smile that you want to be."  
        "I do," she said, tears pricking at her eyes. "Gods, I haven't been able to admit that freely since I was a girl. I want to be so desperately I think I might burst."  
        "Do we know how my good-brother feels?" she asked, excited at the prospect of a new baby in Winterfell.  
        The answer to that question was the one thing that kept Sansa's excitement in check. "We do not," she said. Months earlier, he'd mentioned that he wanted one, but the conversation hadn't been brought back up since. It had been one thing after the other and she'd never known how to bring it up.  
        Brienne gave her a knowing look. "Oh, Sansa, you know. I know you know."  
        "If I am," Sansa started, trying to keep everything as hypothetical as she could manage. "I do believe my dear husband to be spending the next few turns of the moon so afraid of so many things, I fear he may break."   
        "Typical man."  
        Sansa laughed at her friend, nodding. "Indeed. Very typical. But he has his reasons." When her statement was met with a look of confusion, she continued with a sigh. "I've told him that his affliction bothers me none. If he is any indication, our babe will live a full and happy life and that is all a mother can really ask, isn't it?" Brienne nodded silently. "I'm not so naive as to assume that the rest of the world will spare our child their cruelty. I've seen firsthand how horrible people have been to him. Men, women, children..." she trailed off, remembering the way Joffrey had treated him. She shook her head. He was a distemperate, evil little thing, but not the norm. Still, all these years later, she could feel the pain radiating from him as the mock battle took place at his wedding feast. Tyrion had reached his hand for hers for support and, at that moment, she'd given it freely as he'd always done for her. She banished the memory with a shake and continued, "I would do anything to spare him that and will do everything to protect our children from it. But the world is notoriously cruel to many people for many reasons. I know I can never truly understand or quell that fear for him, but I'll spend every day of the rest of my life trying to convince him that it is neither in spite of or because of his size that I love him and any children we may have. It is as much a part of him as his brain and I wouldn't change a thing." Brienne smiled at her, knowing that to be true. Sansa took a deep breath and urged herself to keep talking, grateful to have someone to talk to about all of this. Once, she'd have wished that it would be her mother, but as it turned out, Brienne brought her more comfort than she expected. She couldn't imagine speaking of some of her fears and experiences to her mother. "I mentioned once a fear of the birthing bed, as any woman would have, and he, in turn, fell so sad. He blames himself so for his mother's passing. I fear the same fate, but as many women find that fate. I am well aware that the life of our child may claim mine and I know that that would be a blow from which Tyrion would likely not recover, but he would have to. But I don't fear death," Brienne blinked, remembering her friend's ice-cold, near dead body still too fresh in her mind. Sansa knew as soon as she said it that that was the response she'd be met with. She clasped her hand reassuringly. "I certainly don't welcome it, but I don't fear it. I fear that the babe may come from my womb unbreathing. Or die in their cradle before their first night ends. And what type of a mother would I be?" She looked down, ashamed of all of her fears. A mother should be strong and she still, certainly, doubted that she was as strong as everyone said. "I wake screaming as often as they would."  
        After a period of thoughtful silence, Brienne spoke up. "As strange as it is to say, since I find myself crippled with fear every time Jaime bumps her head or cries all night and hasn't the words to tell me why, you will make it through that fear," she said, taking Sansa's hand in both of hers, patting it gently. "Your mother, may she rest, felt those fears five times over and lived to fight for each and every one of you. You are Catelyn Stark's daughter," she smiled, seeing Sansa soften at the comparison. "You will be an amazing mother. You will, Sansa." The younger girl smiled, running her hand in circles over where she imagined the baby to be, half convinced that you could feel the swell of growth already, but knowing that it wasn't possible. "Gods, you are so very much a mother to be," Brienne said, teasing her lightly before getting up to hug Sansa. "I'm so happy for you!"

        A few days later and Sansa found herself, again, fighting her nausea as she awoke. She bade Tyrion take his leave to break his fast and that she'd be there shortly. He did so warily, growing worried at her lingering ailment. Sighing at his impossibly adorable worry, she gave in. "Tyrion, if it will calm your nerves, send up Maester Ayn."  
        He furrowed his brow, folding his arms across his chest. "Would you like me to be here?" he asked, wondering just what she wasn't telling her. _Please, say yes._  
        "No, that's not necessary, my heart," she said. They both crinkled their noses at the endearment, still set on trying to find something that wasn't 'my love' or 'husband.' "No, I don't like that one either."  
        Tyrion shook his head and kissed her forehead, surreptitiously checking for fever, before taking his leave. "I love you," he said, heading out into the hall.  
        Before too long, Maester Ayn announced his entrance, confirming that her nausea was indeed from pregnancy, noting that the seeds had noticeably sprouted that morning. She smiled at the confirmation but didn't really need it, admitting that she just needed to keep Tyrion at bay until later that night. The man laughed, congratulated her, and took his own leave.  
        Sansa sat on the window seat, her constant companion, the cleaning bucket, at her feet. Her heart raced and her stomach filled with butterflies. She rested her hands at the space that she'd decided was most definitely a noticeable indication of their babe and smiled.   
        She lay across the bench and tried to take a nap in the warm sunlight, but found her rest punctuated by bouts of sick. Laying back and finally dozing off, she found herself thinking "I do hope you're pleased with yourself, little one."

        "Sansa? My love, you missed the morning meal," Tyrion said, returning to their chambers after court. "Are you still asleep?"   
        "I'd been awake," she said, voice groggy. "But I decided that maybe a nap would do me some good."  
        "What did Maester Ayn say?" he asked, curious as to why this nap had occurred anywhere but the bed.  
        Sansa smiled, shaking her head. "I'm perfectly healthy." She sat up. Perhaps too quickly...  
        "Will I be seeing you for lunch, then?" Tyrion asked, before realizing that she was once again reaching for the bucket. "I'll take that as a no," he said, sitting next to her and guiding her to bring her head to his lap. He brushed the hair back from her face. Luckily for Sansa, years of drunken debauchery left him absolutely immune to the sight of sick.  Still, he found himself growing more and more concerned.  
         To be fair, Sansa hadn't intended this for today. She'd been planning an intimate dinner and, at this rate, she was growing concerned that that may not be in the cards.  "Isn't this romantic? Just what you imagined on our wedding night?" she laughed, a little sardonically. "Our ninth wedding anniversary, the first one we've ever spent together, and you're holding back my hair as I wretch. Terribly romantic..." she groaned, rolling her eyes.  
        Tyrion laughed, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. "Honestly, on our wedding night, I wasn't thinking much further than my next breath. Only how miserable you looked and how much I couldn't bear to be a party to that misery."  
        "I thought I'd have been killed for resisting you before our first year was out." Sansa rolled onto her back and looked up at him.   
        "You know I never would have let that happen," he said seriously, running his thumb across her elegant jaw. "They would have had to have killed me first."  
        Sansa nodded, reaching up and running her fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. "I know. And look at us now. Look at how far we've come."  
        "If someone had come to that pathetic, drunken fool passed out on the chaise and said 'you will come to love that girl with every fiber of your being,' he'd have believed it," Tyrion admitted with a laugh. "That would have made sense. The beautiful, untouchable maiden fair, so close but so very far... That would have sounded like his life to him." He stroked her arm gently. _Not untouchable anymore._ "If you'd then said that the girl would reciprocate... he'd have laughed in your face and told you exactly where you could stick your mockery."  
        "I seem to recall you saying something similar that night," she said.  
        "How's that?"   
        She deepened her voice, imitating her husband's deliberate speech pattern and seething rage. "If my father wants someone to get fucked, I know where he can start."   
        "That sounds like something I would say," Tyrion nodded, kissing her forehead, still amused at her usage of more colorful language.  
        "And what, then, if I told that same drunken man that some years down the road, the girl whose honor he preserved so dutifully that night would tell him... say on their ninth wedding anniversary, perhaps, that she was going to have his baby." Her brilliant blue eyes watched him patiently, much more patiently than her pulse let on.  
        "Certainl... He..." He'd started speaking on instinct before her admission really sunk in. "What?" he stammered, green eyes growing wider with each stage of realization. "Sansa, could you repeat that? I don't think I heard you right."  
        She nodded, smile bright as the midday sun on new-fallen snow. "I am going to have a baby. Your baby. You're going to be a father, Tyrion," she laughed.  
        "A fa- Ho- How long have you known?"  
        "A little more than a week?" She sat up a bit, supporting herself on one hand, taking his face in the other. "I wanted to tell you later tonight but I couldn't take you thinking I was ill. The other morning when I realized just how long it had been, and you mentioned how sensitive I was, everything clicked into place. I went to Maester Ayn immediately to be sure. He had me take a wheat and barley test but said it was very likely. He had me come back every day until the seeds had begun to sprout. I had a grand plan about an anniversary dinner and presenting you with a baby blanket I'd embroidered with our sigils combined and..." she rambled a bit while Tyrion seemed to take it all in. "And, Tyrion, I'm so happy I could burst. Are you? Tyrion, please say you are." She took his hand in hers and placed it over the slight bump just below her navel.  
        His face lit up as all she had said sunk in with the admission that, indeed, that is there and how had he not noticed it when she was naked in front of him. His trembling hands flew to the sides of her face and he kissed her as hard as he could. "Oh, Sansa. I love you. I love you so much." He pulled away, looking at her with wonder. "And you're sure?"  
        "Absolutely certain," she nodded.   
        Tyrion struggled to speak. "I... Words can't express how happy I am," he said as the tears that had burned his eyes began to flow freely. "My wife. My beautiful, wonderful, impossible wife." He punctuated each word with a kiss, making Sansa laugh. "I could shout from the battlements. My family," he leaned down, talking confidentially to her belly, thumbing the swell she'd shown him. "Hello in there. You are so, so loved. I love you and your mother so very much. You'll never know. I can't wait to meet you, my little one. But for the time being, I would appreciate it very much if you would stop making your mother so very sick."  
        Sansa watched him and imagined it happening every day for the next seven turns, and then finally her mind granted her the image of him holding their baby, newborn and pink and speaking just as sweetly as he did then. "You are going to be an amazing father," she said, running her hands across his back.  
        "You are going to be an even better mother," he replied, suddenly realizing just how hard the tears had begun to flow. "Oh, Gods, look at me. I thought you were the one that was supposed to do the crying."   
        "Why do you cry?" she asked, wiping the tears away with her thumb.  
        Tyrion shook his head. "Joy, first of all. But," he said, taking a breath. "Sansa. You're so calm. How are you so calm?"  
        "Think about it. I have you. I don't feel the need to worry so much," she tousled his hair gently, before giving a sigh. Sansa straightened up and urged him to do the same. "I have the benefit, here, I think. When I start to worry that something will go wrong- which I know is the wall you're up against, you don't have to tell me that-" she put their hands to her stomach together, and looked him squarely in the eyes, "I can feel the life inside of me. Tyrion, our child was with me through the woods and still they grow strong. I know that they'll tell me if something's wrong."  
        He folded, a puff of breath escaping him. "Sansa, you can't know that. That's not a power anyone possesses. You can't truly know if something is amiss."  
        "I can. Tyrion, listen to me," she shook his hands gently, as though trying to wake him. "I have withstood pain, and as much as I'm not looking forward to the actual birth, you'll be by my side the whole time and there will be a babe at my breast at the end."  
        "You would want me at your side?"  
        She looked astonished that he would even ask. "Is there somewhere else you plan to be?" she guffawed.  
        "No, but many women don't want their husbands inside."  
        "It's too late to worry about _that_ , I think," she said, raising an eyebrow in an effort to make him laugh. When her dirty joke went unnoticed, she gave a melodramatic sigh, taking his face in her hands. "Oh, Tyrion, at which point, do you suppose, does what many women want or don't want play into what I want? I want you to be at my side for the birth of our child. I want you to hold my hand, and wipe my brow, and shoulder whatever vulgarities I scream at you because you are as much a part of this child as I am and you should share in that. For whatever it holds." She stroked his cheek gently before leaning back. "Besides which, I fear that our little family will likely not be much help to either of us. None of them are particularly calming. Can you imagine Arya in here holding my hand? Or Gendry trying to comfort you as you let your mind race to the worst possible places? Or Brienne in either situation?" She laughed at the mental images. He remained unmoved. "No, the only person beside you that I would possibly want in that situation is long since gone and the only person who could be of any service to you is much the same. And in that event, if my memory of lore serves, I believe you would get a cuff to the head with a golden hand for not threatening anyone who came between us that day." She stared at him, daring him to tell her she was wrong.   
        "How did you..."  
        She sighed, flabbergasted by how such a brilliant man could miss the point so entirely. "How I came to have that information is not expressly your concern at the moment. Perhaps most importantly, I want you to be there so that I, preoccupied though I may be, can remind you that I am not going to die. If we are going to do this more than once, I need you to be perfectly aware that I can and will make it through." She grasped his hands between hers.  
        Tyrion hung his head. "Another thing you can't know. And Sansa, you could. That is a very, very real possibility. A very real possibility that I can assure you that I would not survive."  
        "I will have the very best maesters and septas and midwives in the North."  
        "That doesn't-"  
        "And I will not spend the duration of this hearing that I am going to die." She whined, growing frustrated. This was supposed to be a joyous occasion, so why did her husband look like he belonged at a wake? He seemed to want to interrupt again and she cut him off. "Let me finish. I understand that I cannot quiet your fears entirely, as mine of what happens after this child leaves my belly haven't vanished into thin air. I know that you will be afraid no matter what. That is your right. You care. I cannot fault you for loving me as I love you. But, Tyrion, believe me when I say this." Sansa folded her ankle under her opposite knee and looked him directly in the eye. "I will do everything in my power not to die. I will cling to life with every breath I have, every child that I bear. In turn, you have to promise me two things." He nodded. "Should it ever happen that my life ends in a birthing bed, you do not get to die." She put heavy emphasis on every word. He seemed rattled by her talk of morbidity. _Good_ , she thought. _Maybe he'll stop and think about how he sounds._ "You don't get to give up. You have to live. And you cannot turn into your father. Do you hear me? _If I die_ , you will love any children we have, absolutely, no matter what, and you will not take my death out on whichever one comes last." She knew that she needn't worry about Tyrion resenting their child and growing cruel. He'd experienced it firsthand. She wished that she could make him see. "Is that understood?"   
        He finally smiled at her again. "You are a force to be reckoned with.  
        She sighed. Better, she thought, but still not quite the glee she sought. "That is not an answer. I don't mean to harm you talking about this, but I need you to see this from my side. I need you to really think about the fact that I just told you that we are going to be parents and your overwhelming response is that I am going to die."  
        "It is understood." He found himself thinking back over everything she'd said, and a particular phrase struck him. "More than once?"  
        "I told you once that I wanted to fill this house with children. Nothing about that has changed."  
        Tyrion loved that, already, she was thinking about the next child and the next after that. The prospect of a large family excited him, but it wasn't without its own set of worries. "The more children we have, the more likely it is that at least one of them will inherit my dwarfism," he said, unsure whether that had crossed her mind.  
        "Yes?" Sansa said, expression unwavering.  
        "And you're just okay with that? Sansa, that's not something people walk into willingly. The world is not kind to people like me." He paused, correcting himself. "The world is not kind at all, but I can't say that watching as our child suffers its cruelty for something they cannot control..." He imagined their child bullied at length for their size. He imagined them left out by the other children. He couldn't bear it. His voice trembled as he spoke again. "It would break my heart. I've spent nearly thirty-five years paying the price over and over again for something that I neither chose nor intended. It is not the idea of our child being like me that scares me. Not really. I know that my life has not suffered for it. Not really. But it isn't something that I would wish upon anyone, either. People throughout the Seven Kingdoms know me by reputation, and not by virtue of my actions. I am still, even after all the rest are gone, referred to as the imp. And they never sought to change that view. In fact, they often sought to make it worse." He took a moment to steady himself, wiping at his eyes. "The fact remains, even more than that, that I know who my family was. What they were capable of. How they treated us both. As much as it pains me to even think it, what if, Heavens forbid, our child bears more resemblance to any number of others in my lineage. What if our child has a particularly cold and calculated mean streak? What if they grow to have certain persuasions that..."  
        "Those things are learned." She interrupted. "Tyrion, enough, now. I see your point. But, Gods, Tyrion, we can very much control those things." Sansa meant not to be dismissive, but he was beginning to find arguments that were unfounded and surely he knew that. "It is far more likely that our child will have your brilliant mind and sharp wit and gentle soul than it is that they'll bear any resemblance to anyone else in your family. They won't see that cruelty in us or from us. Where would they pick it up? Our children," she said calmly, "will be smart, and kind, and determined. They will be brave and loyal. They will be fierce and they will be loved."   
        "Thanks in large part to your possession of all of those things," he sighed, busying himself with a fold of her skirts, no longer bothering with the tears that still occasionally fell from his eyes.  
        _He'll never see what I do, will he?_ Sansa shook her head, silently vowing to do everything she could for the rest of her days to make him see himself the way she did. "As for the rest..." she said, lifting his head to look at her. "I cannot speak for the world. I can only say that I walk into this next chapter of our lives well aware of the challenges we could face and willing to accept whatever it brings. Any similarity that any of our children bear to their father- from their brain or their heart to their height or their golden curls-" she emphasized, bringing her fingers to pluck at one, watching as it straightened and recoiled, "would bring me more joy than you know. I'm not afraid of who our children may be. They are to be of you and of me." Her eyes welled too, now. "You see, I say this and know it in my heart to be true. Do you know why?" she asked.  
        "Why?" he asked, humoring her.  
        "Because it just so happens that I love their father with all my heart," she answered, kissing him gently.   
        "I love you, Sansa," he said, allowing his hand to trail from her waist to her belly in wonder.  
        She smiled, his ease at relocating the spot reassuring her that it was definitely there and she'd likely not be able to hide it long. "I love you, you charming, silly..." She kissed his forehead, and discovered just how sodden he was with tears, wiping at his eyes with her sleeve, very, very wet man." They both laughed at the heightened emotions. Tyrion leaned forward, wrapping Sansa tightly in his arms. "We're going to have a baby. Can you see it?" she mused.

        That night, after the most beautiful wedding anniversary either of them could imagine, they lay in bed, enjoying the stillness and being together. Sansa slept easy, her head on Tyrion's chest, wrapped in his arms. He lay awake a while, enjoying the thought that, even if only for a short while, he could hold his whole family in his own two arms.   
But for how long? How long would it be before he was called away on business as Hand of the Queen again and his wife would have to watch her husband ride away from Winterfell yet again? He couldn't bear the thought of it.  
        _I'll stay by your side forever,_ he thought, easing himself out of bed gently so as not to disturb Sansa. _I'll be here for the birth of our child. I swear it._ He reclothed himself silently, grabbed a quill and parchment, and began to write. _I'll send a letter to Daenerys now, stating my resignation._ He paused, realization dawning on him. _But if she calls me to Queen's Landing, it could be too late. The journey takes weeks. As early as it is now, I'll be able to go and be back with more time to spare. I'll just go. I'll be back before she knows I'm gone._ He grabbed his warmest cloak and turned back to the bed, kissing his sleeping wife. "I love you both so very much." He brushed his fingers gently across the space where their child grew and made haste south.  
        Sansa woke before the sun to an empty bed and knew. She knew he was gone. He hadn't even said goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...he had a quill and parchment. In his hands. And he didn't leave a note. ::sigh::  
> For someone who talks an awful lot, he seems to forget how when it's really important...


	16. for the debt i owe gotta sell my soul

> When I come home, well I know I'm gonna be  
>  I'm gonna be the man who comes back home to you.  
>  And if I grow old, well I know I'm gonna be  
>  I'm gonna be the man who's growing old with you.  
>  -500 Miles (I'm Gonna Be), The Proclaimers

        The first day was easy. Sansa could readily convince herself that he'd lost himself in the library or gone to visit with Gendry. Then, a guard asked when the Lord would be expected to return from Queen's Landing. And she remembered.  
        The first week grew harder. Her symptoms became more pronounced once she was able to name them. One of the kitchen girls joked to another about the Lady of the House suddenly wanting nothing but a plate brined summer vegetables for her midday meal. She meant no harm, and Sansa knew it. Still, she began to sob. That wasn't all she wanted.  
        By the second week, Arya had picked up on her sister's gradual withdraw and would not stand by and allow her to slip again. Maester Ayn had asked Arya if Sansa still experienced nightmares. Before she could ask why he merely stated that she should be prepared for them to worsen and left the younger Lady Stark to her thoughts. She decided it might be best for her to keep a closer eye on her sister than she'd intended to.  
        That night, Sansa's dreams were scattered, but unpleasant.  
        _The next, however..._  
_Sansa sits on the Iron Throne, bound to it by a vine of thorns. The more she struggles against it, the more the spikes dig into her. She tastes blood in her mouth and wonders if she's been gagged by the vines as well. Tyrion lay prone, unconscious and bruised on the floor at the base of the steps where he'd once helped her to stand. She calls out for him and finds her voice strained, as though she'd been doing so for hours. There's a scream. It's her scream. It's every time she's screamed since she's left Winterfell. But her mouth is closed. A lion stands in the doorway, carrying a trio of monkeys on it's back, one grey and two yellow. One has soft fur, much longer than the other two and starts the charge. Sansa writhes, meaning to run, to attack, to shield Tyrion from their endeavors, but she can do nothing but struggle against the constraints of the vines._  
        Her voice poured into the hallway and Arya knew. She'd been perched on the window sill a few doors down, giving her sister space, but near enough that should she need her, she wasn't out of reach. She hopped down and went to Sansa's door, opening it to find her sister struggling against her blankets.  
        _The monkey with the silken fur moves past Tyrion and heads for Sansa. It has Cersei's eyes. A shiver runs through her body. She could swear she hears it tut disapprovingly at her before moving back to its companions, circling the scene. The grey one lunges first, angrily biting off Tyrion's nose and spits it to the ground with disgust. The smallest one chatters loudly, sounding eerily like a laugh, and takes his hand, bending it backwards until it snaps before twisting it so long it rips off. She cries out for them to stop._  
        Arya sat on the corner of her sister's bed, reaching out to still her. She hadn't known her nightmares to be this bad. It frightened her to see her strong, restrained sister so crazed. Deep down, she was once again amazed at her fortitude to make it through her experiences, and now to be able to have her sleep so haunted, but wake and function.  
        _The long-haired one turns back just once as if to say "Watch what I do now," before plunging its dagger claws squarely into the middle of Tyrion's chest. Sansa's heart races and she means to break the Iron Throne from the floor before sitting idly by. The metal remains unmoved, as does she. The monkey tears within, blood pooling all around Tyrion now._  
        Well and truly worried for her sister, Arya grabbed the sleeping woman by the shoulders. "Sansa!" She gave her a gentle shake. "Sansa, wake up. Hey, woah-" Sansa sat upright, eyes wide, gasping for breath. "Are you alright?"  
        Taking in the face before her, Sansa began to catch her breath. She clung to her sister tightly. "He's gone. He's really gone, Arya."  
        "It was a dream, Sansa," she assured, petting her sister's hair, only to find it weighed down with sweat. "Who's gone?"  
        "Tyrion," she gasped. "The dream..." she started, shaking her head and pulling back from Arya to look at her. "I know the dream didn't happen. I don't think he was torn apart by-" She noted her sister's concern and decided to spare her the details of the bizarre torments her sleep was riddled with of late. "No, Arya, he's really, honestly, left-and-not-coming-back gone."  
        That couldn't be right. Arya furrowed her brows, declaring, "I'm going to need a touch more information, I think."  
        Sansa finally felt herself calming enough to talk more rationally. "I didn't even know he was leaving. Oh, Gods, what am I going to do?" She covered her face in her hands and slid her feet off the side of the bed, willing the room to stop spinning. She still hadn't mentioned the baby to Arya and this was certainly not the way she wanted her to find out.  
        Moving from in front of her sister to beside, the younger girl began rubbing calming circles on her back. "He'll be back. It's alr-" _Didn't know he was leaving? How can that be,_ she thought, interrupting her own mollifications. "Hang on. What do you mean you didn't know he was leaving? You two talk more than any other couple in the history of existence."  
        She hung her head. "He didn't tell me. I woke up and he was gone. A guard told me where he was going the following morning."  
        "Because he left word with him?" Arya suggested.  
        "No. Because he mentioned it," she answered. "Some business with the queen."  
        _Oh, the Queen._ Arya rolled her eyes. "Was there a raven from her?" she asked.  
        Sansa shook her head, trying desperately to quell her stomach. "Arya, he's gone. He left. Oh, I think I'm going to be sick," she said, retrieving the bucket from its place beneath the bed.  
        "Sansa, you're worrying yourself sick over nothing," she said, as her sister found herself just as she'd hoped to avoid. "He'll be back." Arya was at a loss. There  
        "I'm not," Sansa said, taking a sip of water from the glass on the bedside table and spitting it out as well. She put the bucket down, wishing beyond all hope she wouldn't find herself in need of it again. "And you're not helping matters," she said, addressing the ever-growing bump at the base of her stomach.  
        Arya yanked her hand back, moving to stand. "If you don't want to talk to me, I'll leave."  
        "Stop," she groaned, putting one hand on Arya's shoulder to still her and the other on her stomach to still herself. "Not you, _Aunt_ Arya."  
        " _Aunt Arya_? What are you-"  
        "Your _niece_ or _nephew_ is not helping matters." She paused, gesturing with her eyes for Arya to look at where she was resting her hand, allowing time for her to grasp what she was saying. The young warrior blinked a few times before her jaw dropped wide open. Sansa gave a small laugh, then used the hand on her sister's shoulder to help her close her mouth. "You'll catch flies. I was trying not to say anything because it's still early."  
        "Did you tell him?" Arya said, misunderstanding her last sentence. "Tyrion would not have left if he knew."  
        "He knew. I told him and he was gone before first light." She lay back, staring at the canopy. "He didn't even wake me up to say he was leaving. He's not intending to come back. I thought..." She shook her head. "I suppose it doesn't matter what I thought. We had talked about it once before, months ago, and when I told him..." Sansa took a breath, remembering the gentle way in which he'd spoken to their unborn child, "he seemed happy. I won't pretend he wasn't scared, but we addressed his fears, at least acknowledged them and put them out there. You should have heard him. I guess..." she stammered, not really sure what else she could have said. They'd talked and talked that night. There was more to be said and she knew it, but now she remained convinced that it would never be said. "I don't know. I was dismissive. I just didn't think he would run."  
        Arya considered her sister for a few minutes, before deciding what she had to do. There wasn't much else she could imagine being helpful but Tyrion's presence.  "Congratulations, Sansa," she said with a smile, giving her a tight hug kissing her sister on the cheek. "Love you."  
        "Arya, where are you going?" Sansa asked, surprised at the sudden shift.  
        "To get your stupid fucking husband back."

        On her way out of Winterfell, Arya stopped to send a raven to Jon.  
  
      _Jon-_  
_If you happen to see our Lord of Winterfell before I do- Hold him for me. He should be more than halfway to you by the time you get this. Sansa carries his child and her Lord Husband has vanished. I mean not to harm him. Only drag him kicking and screaming back with me. If he leaves again, I make no such promises._  
_Arya._  
  
        The raven appeared some days later on a perch in the Queen's chamber. Jon rolled to his side and untied the missive from the bird, shooing it away. He read it, still propped on his elbow. "Absolute idiot," he laughed, dropping on to his back.  
        Daenerys eyed him curiously, snagging the parchment. She read it over a few times, before realizing what it meant. She knew her plan. "What are you going to do?" she asked, handing it back.  
        About a week later, Grey Worm brought news of a small dispatch of riders heading South from Winterfell, arriving before the afternoon. "Thank you," he said gruffly. "See that the Lord Hand is brought directly to his quarters. Don't even let him stop for a piss." The warrior nodded and took his leave. Jon readied himself for quite the meeting. He headed immediately for the Hand's quarters and sat at his desk, propping his feet up and waited, Longclaw unsheathed in his lap.  
        Before too long, Tyrion made his way into the room and stopped dead in his tracks.  
        "Tyrion. I knew you were a piece of work, but I didn't expect you to be this stupid," Jon said, not looking at him. "And to come here? Where you would stand in front of her older brother and what? Expect shelter for your cowardice?" He turned and stood, gesturing his sword at him. "I should cut your cock right off, little man," he growled, brooding stare turning into a smirk.  
        "Should I go and come back in so we can try that again?" Tyrion asked, tired and a touch thrown off by the greeting. Jon seemed unmoved by his joke. "What exactly have I done this time?"  
        Jon closed the gap between them, looming over Tyrion. "I'm the one asking questions here. What, pray tell, was the first thing that I said to you when I arrived at Winterfell for the feast celebrating your marriage and arrival in the North?"  
        He swallowed hard, not entirely sure what was happening. "I believe you threatened my livelihood should I hurt Sansa," he said, trying desperately to figure out what had stuck in his craw. "What is this, Jon? Is Sansa alright?" He asked, exasperated. Then, it hit him. "Is the baby?"  
        He crossed his arms, stepping back. "Isn't that something you should know?" he asked, voice all Ned Stark.  
        "Oh," Tyrion deflated. _He thinks I left her. He thinks I'm running._ "Oh, this is not what it looks like, I swear." Jon raised his sword as though poised to strike. Tyrion threw up his hands. "Jon, listen to me!" he begged. "I'm here to resign my post as Hand so I never have to come back here again."  
        Jon's mouth twitched. "Love is the death of duty."  
        "Rather that than duty be the death of love," Tyrion replied, breath uneven and panicky.  
        "Did you not leave your wife pregnant and alone?" he asked.  
        A chill waved over Tyrion. "I... wouldn't say that I left her alone." He felt himself on trial for something that he hadn't expected to be a crime. Fitting that I'm to die in these chambers at the hands of a Stark...  
        Lowering his weapon, Jon spoke again. "Did you tell her where you were going?  
        "No..."  
        He turned away from the father to be, feeling his stern image slipping, but not wanting to let him off so easy. "In the weeks that you've been on the road, did you once stop to think 'perhaps I should send word to the wife that I love so much informing her of my intention, my whereabouts or...'" he paced, casting a questioning glance back to Tyrion, "'perhaps assuring my safety after everything we've both been through?'" he mused. "'My wife, whose father once rode south from Winterfell as Hand of the King only to return without a head?'"  
        "It appears not," he said, shoulders slumped in defeat. _You fucked this one up, didn't you?_ he thought. Tyrion had spent so much time alone, he wasn't sure if he would ever get used to having people notice, much less care if he left.  
        Jon reached his hand into his pocket. "You are aware that my sister is going to kill you, right?"  
        Nodding, Tyrion agreed. "I'm well aware of the fury my wife holds."  
        "I'm not talking about that one," Jon said, shoving Arya's note into Tyrion's chest pointedly. He sheathed Longclaw, finally, as he read.  
        "Oh," Tyrion gulped.  
        "'Oh' is right," Jon agreed. He pointed his brother-in-law into the room. "Desk. Pen. Paper. Raven. Take care of that, then I'll congratulate you," he said, cuffing him to the back of the head, adding "you idiot," with a laugh. Jon sat in the chair beside him, both at the visitor's side of the desk and waited for Tyrion to finish his notes.

_Sansa-_  
_Oh, Sansa. I'm a fool. I should have told you. I should have told you that I was going to Queen's Landing to resign as Hand of the Queen. I want nothing more than our family, I swear it. I want to be there for you and our child and I don't want to risk being pulled away on business. You've never said it in so many words, but I know how this title that I've never truly wanted reminds you of things you'd rather forget. Never again will the Lord of Winterfell be called away as hand. That ends here and now. I'll be rid of the title. By hook or by crook, I will. I'm making my return tonight, I swear it._  
_I'm sorry._  
_Now, sing me no stories, I'll tell you no lies, but the man he rides to her side._  
_I'll never leave you again._  
_I love you._  
_Yours always,_  
_Tyrion._

        He tied off the scroll and sent the raven off, busying himself on a second note.  
  
_Arya-_  
_By the time you read this, I'll likely be back in Winterfell. I came only to resign my post as Hand. I swear it. I will never leave Sansa again. Upon our next meeting, I believe I've earned the retribution you're likely to bring._  
_I'm sorry to have frightened her._  
_I'm sorry to have frightened you._  
_Your Brother,_  
_Tyrion._

         Tyrion lit a candle and sealed the second note with wax, bringing it to Jon's attention. "For Arya, when she arrives and doesn't want to hear that I've already left." He crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair, and gave a cocksure grin. "Alright, now. Congratulate me."  
        "When?" he asked clapping him on the shoulder.  
        "Not for some time. It's early yet. She's gone three turns now." He counted, double checking his count. "Nearing four by the time I get home. The roads are getting more treacherous with each day."  
        Jon smiled knowingly. "If I could talk Daenerys into it, would you ride a dragon?"  
        Before long, the men found themselves in an audience with their queen, both on their knees below the iron throne. "You expect me to accept his resignation and in the same breath send the pair of you on Rhaegal to return him to his wife because he couldn't show his wife the common decency of waking her before he leaves for at least a two-month journey?" Daenerys spat, tossing the Hand token to the floor with a metallic clank. "Not knowing how his resignation would be received? That Hands have been put to death for less? That his own father-in-law, the man who raised you, a Lord of Winterfell turned Hand of the King, was put to death for less?" she rose to her feet, hands folded in front of her.  
        "You're not one to spill blood unnecessarily, Your Grace," Jon said, head still bowed beside Tyrion.  
        "Why should I not lock you in a dungeon and have you await whatever your Good Sister may have planned?" She asked, descending upon the men. "I have a great deal of respect for both Lady Starks." She looked at Jon briefly before turning on Tyrion. "My relationship with them may never be particularly comfortable, but they are formidable women and valued allies to me. The North remembers." She paused, letting her silence speak. "I, too, do not forget."  
        Jon rose to his feet and faced his Queen, taking her by the arm gently. "Dany, come on. I'd prefer not to have Sansa hate me over this," he said low, but not low enough to go unheard by Tyrion. He gave her a private wink.  
        All business, Daenerys clenched her jaw and pushed Jon's hand from her arm. "I told you once, Jon Snow, the last person who called me Dany was not the type of man whose company you should wish to keep." She closed the gap between Tyrion and her self, her own diminutive form looming high above him in this position. "Do I strike fear in your heart, Lord Tyrion?" she asked. Her violet eyes held no mercy.  
        "No, Your Grace?" he lied shakily. _I'm sorry, Sansa..._  
        "Perhaps that's for the best," she said, suddenly gentle as she laughed and knelt to help Tyrion stand. He looked at her astounded, having been had twice in one day.  "Congratulations," she said, hugging him tightly before taking his hands. "And hug Lady Sansa from me. Tell her that this time, the things we share needn't be complicated." She stepped back and took Jon's arm. "You know, you could have sent a raven and avoided this whole mess. I knew before the Battle of Winterfell that she would call for you and have been expecting your resignation for months."  
        Tyrion let out a shaky breath. "I'd have liked to have been privy to that information, Your Grace."  
        She laughed. "I suppose you would have. Go," she said, a smile playing at her eyes before grabbing Jon by the hand. She pulled him back and kissed him softly, his hands finding rest on her waist. "Be safe," she whispered, eyes still closed and her slender hips still pressed against Jon's as she pulled back. His hands trailed across her middle before catching her hand once more as he passed.  
        "It has been an honor, Your Grace," Tyrion said, kneeling before her in service. The men left the throne room together for the last time. "How goes that second vow of celibacy, Lord Commander?"  
        Jon groaned. "About as well as the first one." As they walked the gardens toward the cliff where Rhaegal slept, they kept light conversation, knowing that they had just over a full day's ride ahead of them. "For what it's worth, we both knew what you were coming back for the moment Arya's letter arrived. Daenerys wouldn't let me just grab you by the cloak and drag you back. She wanted to be in on the fun."  
        "That was fun for you, was it? Enjoying that whole Fire and Blood thing, are we?" he chided.  
        "It's my job," he said. "Just like it's your job to take care of your family."  
        Tyrion gave an exasperated laugh. "Is that all?"  
        "What?"  
        "I don't know if you've noticed," he said, picking a leaf from one of the vines and tossing it to the ground, "but I lack most skills that would be deemed essential to protecting anyone. From the moment Sansa told me, I haven't been able to truly calm my nerves. We spoke at length about most of it, but I just couldn't tell her that what I fear most is me. She's seen so much-" he gestured vaguely back in the direction of the castle that had been their prison once, "survived so much. I know she doesn't need protection. She's told me so a hundred times." He sighed and looked up at his friend. "There are outcomes I can't prepare for. And there are things I can't control."  
        Jon rolled his eyes. "You worry too much. Taking care of them isn't just protecting them. It helps, if you're in a world at war, but we're not at war." He thought of the girl who came to Castle Black, battered and scared, but ready to fight to reclaim their home, even when he didn't want to fight. "Sansa is strong. Stronger than either of us." He looked at Tyrion and knew the didn't need convincing of that. "These things you can't control..."  
        "You're as much aware of them as I am, Aegon, son of Lyanna-" Tyrion gave Jon a pointed look and received a warning one in return. "If you and Daenerys should ever find yourselves in such a way, let me know how you feel about it then."  
        "Daenerys has been through childbirth before, and though the babe was dead in her arms," Jon felt a particular twinge in his chest at the thought, "she managed. You know that." The men reached Rhaegal and stopped to finish their conversation before beginning their courtesies. Jon closed his eyes, never having been one for advice. "Look, just because you, Daenerys and I all happen to share a certain tragic page in our life stories doesn't mean it's all that common, considering." Tyrion shook his head and avoided Jon's stare. "Look at your sister. Better yet, look at your wife's mother. I can personally attest to her strength through all but Robb. I know that's little consolation," he shrugged, not really sure if what he said mattered in the grand scheme of things, "but look at how many women live to tell the tale and scare the next generation or three's worth of little girls."  
        Jon gestured to Rhaegal and Tyrion gulped. _The things I do for love..._ he thought

        Sansa found herself alone with Bran in the great hall a great deal since Arya left. Although it had been mere days, she grew more and more uneasy with each moment. She tapped her head against the chair gently back impatiently, waiting for Maester Ayn to arrive so they could begin their meeting.  
        Eventually, Bran shattered the silence with his unfeeling voice. "Why do you avoid me so?"  
        "You know why," she sighed. He had to know. She folded her hands at the base of her stomach and closed her eyes. She hadn't even bothered to ask him for his input on her current situation, expecting the usual riddles. "Nothing you deem worthy to say to me will help. You say you can't see the future."  
        "But I can see the present," he said, "And the past."  
        She found herself exhausted with him already. "Comforting, Bran," she nodded sarcastically, turning to face him. "Truly enlightening." If that was truly the case, then she needn't be bothered to tell him anything. He already knew more than anyone else and should be able to easily ascertain the questions she so desperately needed to be answered.  
        "Fine." Disgusted, the Lady of Winterfell rose in search of Maester Ayn, no longer interested in the company of mystics speaking with familiar tongues. As she reached the door, he spoke again. "Sansa, keep a weather eye to the southern sky.

        The two men stopped to rest the first time just after midnight. A fire blazed on as they tried to sleep. "I wish I could help her," Tyrion said as he poked at the embers when he couldn't manage to fall asleep.  
        "Says many a man who loves his wife," Jon said, not bothering to open his eyes. "You know what didn't help?"  
        "Leaving."  
        He took a deep breath and agreed, submitting to the idea that, perhaps, he wasn't going to get to sleep until Winterfell. "Leaving. The look on your face yesterday, when you thought something might have been wrong with Sansa or your baby, gave me great confidence in you as a husband and a father." He reached down at his side and began forming a snowball between his hands. "Even if I hadn't already had my suspicions, I'd have known right then that you were just an idiot and not to kill you." He finally opened his eyes and whipped the snowball at his Good Brother. He propped himself on his elbow and sighed, realizing he'd dodged the projectile. "What would you have done if you'd walked in that door and I told you that Sansa had lost that baby?"  
        "I don't know."  
        "Think very hard. That's an outcome that flashed before your mind and I know it did. You couldn't have controlled that. How would you have reacted?"  
        Staring into the flames silently, Tyrion turned the idea in his mind a couple of times over. None of the outcomes painted him in a particularly flattering light. "I'd have broken," he admitted. "Probably crawled into a cask of wine, been dragged home by Arya and not been able to bring myself to look Sansa in the eyes ever again."  
        "But if you'd been with her?" Jon asked, sitting up the rest of the way, thoroughly resigned to the idea of sleeplessness.  
        "Why are you doing this?" Tyrion asked.  
        Jon covered his face in his hands. _That's a good fucking question._ "Are you going to let me sleep if I stop?" Tyrion lowered his gaze. "I thought not. So, what would you have done if that had happened and you were by her side?" He took a swig from the horn of ale at his waist and passed it to Tyrion, who turned it down. After their drunken night a few weeks prior, he'd not been particularly keen to imbibe, even while not at Sansa's side.  
        "Held her. I... don't know what else." Tyrion looked at Jon who still seemed to expect a better answer. One he couldn't give. "The point you're trying to make is that I'd not have been there for her. She'd have been alone."  
        "And, if, Gods forbid, she had died..."  
        Tyrion's mouth worried into a frown. "Don't, Jon," he implored.  
        Having none of his interruptions, Jon started over. "If Sansa had died pregnant and alone thinking that her husband-" he leaned over and prodded at him with two fingers, " _You-_ " he added for clarity, "had abandoned her?" He folded his arms and watched the frustration grow in Tyrion's eyes. He needed to get back to Sansa. She couldn't think she was alone anymore.  
        "Let's go," he said, standing up, brushing the snow from his furs.  
_The sooner I get you home the better,_ he thought. Kicking snow into the fire, Jon concluded: "That's what I thought."  
        They flew until the sun was high in the sky. Rhaegal soared over towns and forests. Truthfully, Tyrion thought, it's not the worst way to travel. He watched as people poured out into the roads to watch them soar over. It was interesting, he thought, how the people living under Daenerys didn't seem to fear the dragons, despite their power. A different monarch with two living dragons might have been a different story, but the world may truly have had a chance. He was, for the first time, truly proud to have served a ruler, but he had to admit, the prospect of what lay before him looked to be even more fulfilling. For the first time, on the wings of a dragon, Tyrion truly felt freedom.  
        After a while, the pair decided they needed to stop and eat. They reached a town along the King's Road with a tavern and rested to break bread. Their topic of conversation still hovered around family. "Sansa was born to be a mother. She carried Rickon around like a doll for the first three years of that boy's life. If you ever needed to find either of the two little ones, you had to find Sansa first," Jon said with a laugh.  
        Tyrion nodded. "She picks our niece up from the moment we walk in until the moment we leave.  
        "Niece?" Jon balked, putting his bread down on the side of his bowl. His eyes shone a little, clearly not opposed to the thought, though shocked. "Arya-"  
        "No. Gods, no" Tyrion laughed. "Ser Brienne's daughter," he clarified. Jon still seemed confused. He knew that Brienne had a child, surely. She was brought up in conversation often enough. "My brother's daughter. Jaime, little Jaime. There's a good lad. She's my niece, born of Ser Brienne and my late brother. Surely, you knew that."  
        Jon shook his head. "I had no idea."  
        "That Brienne had a daughter or that she actually married my brother before the Battle at Winterfell?" Tyrion asked, amused at Jon's total genuine unawareness.  
        "Yes," he said, insinuating that he knew of neither.  
        Truthfully, only three people in the world were aware of the marriage besides the couple and one of them was the Septon who'd officiated it. He smiled a little at the memory.  "You were otherwise occupied, I suppose."  
        Jon eyed him curiously. "And you said her name is Jaime? A good, strong name," Jon said. He didn't know the man well, but he'd come through when it mattered. That was worthy of respect. As for prior misgivings, Jon found himself without a leg to stand on with regards to many of them.  
        "She's a good, strong girl," he answered, smiling fondly.  
        "I don't doubt that."  
        Tyrion thought a lot about his family, both natural and found, on the ride to Queen's Landing. Mostly, he thought of Jaime and how different things in Winterfell would be with two besotted lions running around with their Northern girls. He found himself inventing phantom advice in his brother's voice for all of his parental fears as he would have so freshly been through them himself. In the perfect world in his mind, in another ten years, there'd have been an absolute swarm of children running around Winterfell. Between the three coupled, there could easily have been fifteen or twenty children by then, even with the Lannister men being more seasoned than the rest, and if Daenerys ever made an honest man of Jon, their children would have to see Winterfell at least once. The sheer magnitude of a feast with their little family's not so little spread was something he'd never have let his mind wander to inside of a year before. Secretly, though, the most gratifying thought he had of this fantasy world was one of a still dead Tywin, finding out that both of his sons had found happy lives and families away from his lofty expectations. Two happy marriages that Tywin couldn't touch; Two sets of children he couldn't wound. That fantasy world may not have ever been meant to exist, but Tyrion was thrilled with the fantasy he lived in. "Jaime would be beside himself. She's a living doll. She even has his charming lopsided smile." Tyrion's heart panged for the family his brother would never get to see.  
        "He wasn't all that bad, was he?"  
        "No," Tyrion said, tapping his mug on the table lightly. "No, he wasn't."  
        "Do you miss them?" Jon asked, clearly driving the topic toward Tyrion.  
        He didn't even have to think about it. "Her, no. Never," he confirmed, shaking his head. There were too many irredeemable things his sister had done. There was no doubt in his mind that the world was better off without Cersei. "Him, terribly." His brother was his hero, there was no denying it.  
        "What about their kids?" he asked.  
        He looked at Jon curiously. "Joffrey? No. Decidedly not. The boy was..." Tyrion struggled for the words to appropriately capture the ire he felt at the mere memory of the boy; the sheer glee he'd found in terrorizing other people, most notably Sansa and himself. "You can't truly imagine what he was. Be glad you only encountered him the one time, when he was young enough to not be as much of a beast as he became." Jon was shocked at Tyrion's candor. The man was never less than honest with him, but to hear him speak so negatively of someone was truly surprising to him. Tyrion shook his head. "It's no wonder people thought Sansa and I killed him. That would truly have been something. But it is rather unlikely that we would have survived that." He dismissed the thought outright. "But the younger two... Myrcella was such a happy child. And Tommen was so kind. They were truly innocent." He smiled, thinking of how much potential Tommen had, only to take his own life. "I think, if the situation were different, Sansa and Myrcella could have been good friends."  
         Jon pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You've thought about that?"  
        Tyrion released a puff of air. "Jon, your sister and I have been married for nine years." He still couldn't believe it. It was so strange to say. They may have nearly a decade of shared history in the eyes of the Gods, but everything was still so fresh and new. He shook his head. "Nine years. Do you still not believe that I would have done everything I could to make her life easier? I thought then that, perhaps, between myself, her handmaiden, Shae, and the Tyrells, we could have made King's Landing less torturous for her. Once we married, I would have never let..." he trailed off. He would never have let any of it happen. He didn't know how, but he would have found a way. "Well, suffice it to say, I always wanted to be good to her, even before love had crossed my mind."  
        "If she had stayed by your side, you would never have let your father, your sister, your nephew, or Baelish lay a finger on her. And Ramsay Bolton would never have been a question. If you had your way, no harm would ever have come to her." Jon listed all of those things and Tyrion couldn't contest. "I firmly believe that. Why is it that you doubt yourself now?" he paused, meaning for Tyrion to reply, but then reconsidered. "Don't answer, I guess. Just think about it. You appear to be the only person, save perhaps Arya, who doesn't have complete faith in your devotion to Sansa and that's nothing personal. That's just how she is."  
        "How much longer until we reach Winterfell?" Tyrion asked before drinking deep of the tea in his mug.  
        "Not much. Couple of hours," Jon surmised.  
        "Will you stay?"  
        Jon shrugged. "For a night or two, just to bestow my best wishes on the mother-to-be and catch some sleep before I head back." He kicked at Tyrion under the table and missed.  
        Tyrion laughed loudly at his miscalculation. He kicked back, landing his right at Jon's knee. "You should try to visit more often." If he squinted, having Jon around was almost like having Jaime back. _If he squinted hard._  
        "I know," he admitted.  
        "They miss you," he said, considering the man before him. Even if he didn't seem to know how to unify being Jon Snow and Aegon Targaryen, he was still family. "Sansa and Arya, anyway. I can't speak for Bran."  
        Jon gave a pointed laugh. "Who can?"  
        "Was he always so frustrating?"  
        "No. No, that came after..." Jon smiled fondly, remembering a much simpler time. "Bran was fairly easy, comparatively. Sansa was the little Lady," he started, presuming it was his turn to reminisce and fill in the gaps for Tyrion, "Pushy and a pain in the ass, and every bit her mother. Arya is, was, always has been, and always will be wild. May the Gods have mercy on Gendry," the men laughed, not out of malice or pity, but acknowledging that she was a force to be reckoned with. "The woman that you know, for the largest part, is very much the same woman that little girl was always going to be. With all the things she's seen, everything she's done, somehow Arya is the one who's least scarred," _at least,_ he thought, _from what I can gather_. "I guess she was always supposed to be the savior. But Bran..." he trailed off. "He was quiet. He was like me in a lot of ways, I think." He remembered how much he'd been able to guide him where Robb, and even Arya, seemed not to have the patience. Rickon..." he hung his head. "I hardly even remember anymore. I mean, his existence. I remember his face and his energy. I remember him being there. But he was so little..." Tyrion searched the man's face. Frankly, Rickon was the Stark he'd heard the least about. All of their other losses had been people whose impacts had shaped the world they wanted to be and in their martyred deaths, their images grew gilded, even if now the shine had begun to fade, leaving the living to recall the human forms of their idols. Ned Stark's honor and duty was now tinged with blind ignorance of the world around him. Lady Catelyn's fierce protection of her family in peril gave way to her reckless abandonment of those she thought to be out of harm's way. Robb's bravery and heroism was deemed, at best, ill-advised by most now. Hindsight was beginning to show the living the perils of the dead. He knew that the boy's death had hit everyone particularly hard, but no one dared mention him most of the time. If they did, he noted, the mood shifted drastically. He didn't even know for sure how he died, as opposed to the vivid colors used to paint the mental images of the elder's deaths. He'd heard a battlefield mentioned, and he knew Jon was there, but that was all he could get out of anyone. "He was, what, maybe four or five when this whole mess started. I think he would have been smart, especially if he'd made it back to a Winterfell with Sansa and Arya around. Hell, you and Sansa would be raising a teenager before you've even got a baby of your own." Jon smiled sadly. "He'd have been better off than the lot of us. He was starting to read already when I left for The Wall. Even before that, he liked to listen to the older kids' history lessons. His death, though. That I remember. I don't think I'll ever lose the sight of that sweet face gasping for breath then fading out. At least he went quick," Jon said. Tyrion certainly wasn't going to push for more details when it clearly pained him so. "I suppose that's all you can ask for, given the circumstances."  
        "What about you, Robb, and the Greyjoy boy?"  
        Jon softened a bit, grateful for the shift of topic. "That's a little harder for me to be objective about. Theon wasn't born in Winterfell. He was, for better or worse, a captive." He shrugged, then added, "I suppose I was, too. But, he was another brother to us even if he and I were always at odds. He didn't see why our f- Ned... why Ned gave a shit about me if Lady Catelyn didn't." He sighed focusing on the pattern of the wood grain on the table, before laughing, remembering yet again how much she resented him so needlessly all those years. "I was always frustrated that Lady Catelyn was fonder of him than of me." He laughed tersely. How different would it have been, he often found himself wondering, if Ned had told just Lady Catelyn the truth. Just his _wife_ and so much heartache could have been avoided. The rest of the world could have believed him a bastard. That much didn't bother him. Looking back, it was truly a wonder that she believed him anyway. An honorable man doesn't sire two children within weeks of one another. "Robb, though. Robb was a Lord, may well have been a God for the way everyone treated him. He was born to rule. He would have been a great king. There's not a doubt in my mind about that. But he could be a right prick. The first time he ever called me brother was the day I left for the wall." Tyrion raised his brows in slight surprise. "I idolized the asshole for years and he didn't recognize me as his brother until the last time we'd ever see each other."  
        The image began to form in Tyrion's head. Sansa was one of _seven_. He'd grown up one of _three._ It hadnever occurred to him how lonely it must truly be for her. "I guess that makes sense, then..." he mused.  
        "What does?"  
        "Sansa's said all along that she wants to fill the house with children," he permitted himself the image for a moment, smile playing soft lines at the corners of his eyes. "I guess I'd never realized just how many of you there were."  
        Sunshine of days long past warmed Jon's heart, despite the midwinter frost on the tavern's windows. _A Winterfell full of joy again,_ he thought. "That sounds right. That'll be good." He nodded, a little intimidated by how strong any children born of his sisters and their husbands would be in every sense of the word. He imagined, too, a couple of silver-haired ones mixed into the group occasionally and smiled. "Winterfell's warmer with kids in it."  
        "Or that's because it was summer for the biggest part of your memories," Tyrion joked.  
        "I'd bite my tongue if I were you," Jon warned him, taking another gulp of ale "or I may remember that you're ten years older than my sister." The men settled their tab and strode from the tavern, Winterfell squarely in their minds. "Let's get you home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon Snow might know a thing. Maybe.  
> One more chapter and the epilogue, folks! We're coming to a close.


	17. i can't say no

        Now I see a family where there once was none  
        Now we've just begun  
        Yeah we're gonna fly to the sun  
        - Danny's Song, Loggins & Messina  
  
        "Keep a weather eye to the southern sky," Bran had told her. Sansa had done so all day, despite not really knowing what she was looking for. It wasn't until after dinner when she'd heard some of the workers in the courtyard mentioning that they'd heard tales in town about a dragon headed this way and wondered what the Queen could want with The North now and why couldn't she come herself instead of sending back Jon and they hadn't even known that the Lord Hand had departed Winterfell. No sooner did she go in search of Maester Ayn for confirmation, the man intercepted her, asking if he should assemble a reception for the return of the Lords.  
        "That won't be necessary," she said coolly. "It will be much too late in the evening for that upon their return. I shall receive them myself. Alone." There was some truth to her reason, to be sure, but more accurately, she didn't know what her emotions would do when they arrived. She couldn't risk public perception if her stoic demeanor were to falter and she threw herself at her husband on sight. Nor could she bear it if she were to turn angry and give satisfaction to the people who still spewed vile insults about her, her husband, and their marriage when they thought she couldn't hear. No, this needed to be done in private. As privately as possible, anyway, she thought, when your husband decides to hitch a ride home on a dragon.  
        Sansa stilled, closing her eyes. There were still a dozen possibilities in her mind. None of them mattered, really, because they'd be here by day's end. Tyrion would be home by days end.  
        The Lady of Winterfell stood just outside the doorway of the residence with bated breath as she watched the majestic creature land just outside the walls. She stole a glance at herself in the window, making sure she was as put together as one could expect. She'd spent a fair bit of time altering her dresses to make room for her changing frame. The grey, high necked gown in the heavy, diamond embroidered fabric that reminded her of the scales of a fish, one of her favorites, had been one of the first she'd done. The cinched leather belt proved difficult to modify, so she'd removed it altogether. She even decided to add the necklace with the replica of Arya's Needle as an emphasis. It wasn't much, she thought, but it was a strong impression. As vain as the gesture felt, especially given her expectation that the formidable image would soon give out, it helped her feel more held together when she was fraying at the seams. This was the way she'd felt most powerful when she needed to. This dress had been her armor. She was livid. Even if Tyrion only saw a glimpse of that anger, he needed to see it. She needed him to know in a way that was deliberately her.  
        But as soon as the men made their way through the gate, her resolve was all but gone. _Tyrion_. Home and safe. Her stomach fluttered. She couldn't keep her eyes off of him. She was overwhelmingly grateful that this reunion was taking place under cover of darkness because she could hide, just a little bit longer. She was so angry, still. She had to keep telling herself that. Because that anger was quickly growing cold in the face of relief and desire and glee and adoration and wholeness. _Give up, Sansa, you're not angry. You're confused. You're hurt. You're scared. You're not angry,_ she thought. Her pulse raced the nearer they got.  
        Jon reached her first, sweeping into a noble bow. "My Lady," he said, taking her hand and kissing it.  
        "My Lord," she said, entertaining his formality for a mere beat before pulling him out of his posture and hugging him tightly. "Jon, thank you. Welcome home," she whispered, keeping her face obscured in his cloak intentionally. He gave her a watery smile and glanced down at her stomach. Her expression softened a little and she nodded, acknowledging that they'd definitely talk about it later.  
        When Jon moved aside, Tyrion had reached them. His eyes never left Sansa once. He breathed her name, unable to come up with the appropriate apology. He couldn't think of anything but her face and how angry and hurt she was. And how beautiful and perfect she was. They stood in frozen silence.  
        "You can't do that," she said finally. Her heart raced. "Ever again."  
        Jon placed a reassuring hand on her arm, noting the way he seemed completely at a loss. "He w-"  
        "I need to hear it from my husband."  
        Tyrion closed the gap between them, reaching up for her hands. "I will never leave you again." His eyes searched hers, imploring her to see that he meant it with all his heart. Her resolve began to fold. She covered her face in her hands, brushing away hot tears and leading them inside. "We cannot keep doing this. You cannot keep leaving and getting hurt and leaving and I get hurt and..." she threw her head back with a groan, "why didn't you tell me?"  
        He couldn't answer that. He'd gotten wrapped up in the moment, surely, but he could have mentioned it. They could have gone together. He could have left a note.  Something.  Still, what's done was done and he was home now.  
        They headed up the stairs and into the hallway that led to their chambers. Sansa stopped at their door, exasperated that he still couldn't be bothered to explain. "I love you so much and I can't seem to wrap my head around why this keeps happening. We've both spent so much time alone, Tyrion," she said, "I can be alone. I know you can, too. But why?" she asked, looking down, a little ashamed of herself. "I don't want to be alone anymore. I just want you. And..." She took a deep breath. "Every time you leave, I see your head on a pike alongside my father's and I can't bear the thought that you might not come back to me."  
        Tyrion moved to her, taking her still gloved hands in his. He kissed it gently and looked up at her face.  Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.  Her mouth turned down into a frown.  She looked so sad.  So hurt. He'd promised to never hurt her and now here she was, carrying his child and hurt.  He once thought himself to be a brilliant man, but the way she looked at him now made him realize just how stupid he was.  Stupid men didn't deserve women like Sansa.  Stupid men didn't deserve to speak.  
        Jon watched them for a moment as Tyrion still struggled to find words. He rolled his eyes. "Tyrion has been relieved of his duty as Hand of the Queen, Sansa," he said, trying to prompt some end to their torturous silence. He'd talked his ear off every chance he had for a solid day and now, when it mattered, it was as though he'd fallen mute.  Sansa's eyes widened. She glanced quickly between the two men.  
        "Did you not get my letter?" Tyrion asked. Sansa shook her head emphatically.  
        Jon smiled, nudging Tyrion. "Dragons are faster than ravens," he said, as though that was common knowledge. "I'll leave you two be." He headed up the hallway for some much-needed rest in a room as far away from theirs as he could find.  
        Unsure as to whether or not he was yet welcome, Tyrion decided to test the waters by opening the door to their chamber, motioning for Sansa to enter first. She did so and turned back to face him. She gestured for him to close the door and again, they found themselves staring wordlessly at one another. It was, as best Tyrion could remember, as adrenaline-inducing as the moments before a duel. Their hearts both racing, two minds planning their next move, only the goal here was to avoid any and all wounds.  
        They stood there for what could have been hours. It was not. Both of their resolves crumbled in mere seconds. Tyrion looked so sad and so sorry and she couldn't take it anymore. She sank to her knees and threw her arms around him, all of her emotions coming out in bursts of sobs. She grabbed fistfuls of his cloak. He kissed the top of her head. She pulled him tighter. Then, the lightest of smacks landed on his chest. He grimaced, then laughed, pulling her back tighter for a real kiss. Her hands tangled into his hair, still a wreck from a day's flight on a dragon.  
        "I mean it," she said, busying herself on their cloaks and gloves, and relaxed back on her heels. "You can't do that again. If you're leaving, just tell me. Please don't sneak off in the middle of the night. I thought you were gone," she said, petting the soft furs in her arms.  
        Tyrion reached his hand to gently cup her cheek, hearing the words she didn't say. "I love you, too." He kissed her gently again, before looking her in the eyes. "I missed you, too."  
        She melted into his touch. "I love you. Welcome home."  
        He offered a hand to help her off the floor. "How are you?" he asked, realizing that he still hadn't.  
        "We're fine," Sansa answered, finally smiling for the first time in what felt like ages. Although that wasn't what he'd asked, Tyrion still felt a particular joy at her words. He smiled, reaching out to touch her middle and kissed the spot that now was an undeniable sign of their impending parenthood, before going about disrobing to his smallclothes. She hung their cloaks and proceeded to do the same.  
       "Have you been feeling better?" He asked, unable to look away from her, undressing and moving about the room by rote.  
        Sansa shrugged. She hadn't really thought about it. "I suppose," she said. She crossed to him and turned, lowering herself so he could help undo the buttons on the back of her dress. "The nausea stopped altogether for the most part which is no small victory," she mused. "But, I'll admit that my emotions are still extremely unpredictable which has been rather daunting of late," As she spoke, he thumbed at the straps of her shift, wordlessly asking if she wanted help with that too. When she signaled a no, he kissed her shoulder and she stood. "But all in all, I think now that we're out of the earliest stages, things should be easier for a time." She sat on the bed, breathing a sigh of relief.  
        As he gathered their worn clothes and dropped them into the basket by the door, he turned back to her. "I'm sorry. Sansa, I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking." He knelt on the chest at the foot of the bed, leaning his upper body against the bedpost. "I need to be here with you and the only thought that came to my mind was that, as time wore on, it would be more likely that The Queen would call me away from you and I couldn't have that hanging over me. I meant only to have it taken care of with as much haste as I could manage once and for all. You know," he said, remembering Daenerys' parting words, "she did say something odd before I left Queen's Landing. First, she said to hug you, so," he circled to her and climbed into bed, wrapping her in his arms, "from our Queen, and she said to tell you that 'this time, the things you share needn't be complicated.'" He raised an eyebrow in question, but she seemed to be processing the cryptic statement as well so he let it pass.  
        In her memory, Sansa played over her meeting with Daenerys on the day Jaime had appeared in Winterfell, scouring it for what she meant It was straightforward enough, surely, but something in the way she'd phrased her message led Sansa to believe it wasn't to be taken at face value. She'd stood up for Tyrion and the mistrust of Cersei's word.  
        "Families can be complicated."  
        "Ours certainly have been."  
        "A sad thing to have in common."  
        Finally, the realization came to her and she smiled gently. She'd have to write to her in the morning. Sansa regarded her husband. "Have you eaten? Have you slept?" she asked.  
        He nodded, eyeing her carefully. "Have you?"  
        "Enough," she affirmed. Truthfully, after the dream that brought Arya to her room, her nightmares had calmed into bizarre, erratic streams of thought that she could certainly sleep through much easier than the rest, but she still found herself waking with a start. Tyrion saw through her pretense and gestured for her to lay down. He propped himself on his elbow, resting his hand on her belly and rubbing his thumb across it slowly. "I've been thinking-"  
        "There's a surprise," she japed, bringing her hand up to caress his cheek. "Did it hurt?"  
        "Hey, now," he laughed, accepting that he fully deserved that. He started again. " _I've been thinking,_ how about Rickon for a boy."  
        Sansa was taken aback. If their first born was to be a boy, he didn't want him to be named for him or any of the men in his family, or some learned man from history, but for her baby brother? "Are you sure," she asked. He nodded resolutely. "I like that idea."  
        Seeing her so at peace with the conversation filled him with joy. Until recently, only his wildest dreams featured the thought of his wife so thoroughly pleased with the prospect of their child. "Have you done any thinking about names?"  
        "Only since I was about five," she groaned.  
        Of course, she had. But that wasn't exactly what he meant. Still, he appreciated her lightness toward the conversation. He leaned toward her, kissing her on the cheek. "But more recently? And more specifically suited to our child?"  
        "Some," she sighed, giving in to Tyrion's questions. "But the more I think about it, the more I think we won't know until we hold them. But I do like the idea of honoring those we've lost."  
        "I thought you might." He pulled her in tight against him. He'd missed so much in such a short time and, loathe though he was to admit Jon's accuracy, there were questions that he had that he should have known. "Have people started to notice?" he asked, resting his head against hers.  
        Sansa rested against him and considered it. She'd not been going to any great lengths to hide her pregnancy but she also hadn't told anyone since Arya and she hadn't really been paying attention to people's reactions. "No, I don't think so," she surmised with a shrug. "I was holding on to hope that we might be able to tell people together," she shifted her gaze to watch his smile grow at the thought. It seemed, for whatever it was worth, his trip to Queen's Landing had given him time to adjust to his own fears and just be truly excited to be a father; A fact which pleased Sansa to no end. She traced her hand up and down his side absently, reveling in the togetherness. "Apart from us and Maester Ayn, Arya and Brienne are the only ones who know."  
        "Jon and Daenerys as well," he added, though a little frustrated that he'd been denied the opportunity of telling them. "That sounds fair to me." His eyes flitted downward, unable to contain his questions. "Have you felt them move yet?"  
        "No, Maester Ayn says it's too early for that." Still, the thought of it thrilled her. And the thought of sharing it all with Tyrion more so. She couldn't seem to stop herself and adjusted her position to give him a gentle kiss that she smiled through.  
        Tyrion cradled her head in his hands, returning her gesture once, then twice. "What was that for?" he asked, repeating the motion one final time.  
        "For coming back to me," she answered, returning her head to his chest, enjoying the comforting thrum of his heartbeat.  
        "Did you really believe that I wouldn't?" She shrugged a silent response and held him a little tighter. "Sansa..." He tried to wriggle away slightly to get a look at her face.  
        She didn't give in, tucking her chin in. "It doesn't matter now. You're here."  
        His heart broke a little. She was so used to people leaving and not coming back that it didn't even dawn on her that people returned far more often. "Sansa, it does matter. I love you. I need you to believe that from the minute I leave your side, I am counting the seconds until I return." His words seemed to ease her. Tyrion tilted her head up ever so slightly; just enough that she had to make eye-contact with him as he spoke. "There is nowhere I would rather be."

        The couple lingered in bed well into the day. When the growling of their tummies could no longer be ignored, Tyrion went to the kitchens in search of something to bring back for them. Once he'd procured their feast, he loaded it into a basket, save the end of a loaf of bread which he, instead, bit down upon to tide him over.  
        "What, may I ask, do you call that?"  
        Tyrion raised his eyebrows in surprise, searching for the speaker, turning to find Gendry, arms crossed sporting a dour expression, leaning against the doorway to the courtyard. "Lunch?" he asked, waving the end of the crust around for emphasis. "Breakfast might be more accurate, but..." He knew what he meant, but wasn't going to give in that easily.  
        "No," he corrected.  
        He looked out the window and saw a pointed tail raising past the wall. "A dragon," he suggested. "Rhaegal, to be specific."  
        Not in the mood, he gave in. "Disappearing on her as you did."  
        "Ah," he nodded, brushing the crumbs from his beard. "Have either of the Ladies spoken to you about it?" _How much do you actually know?_  
        "No. Arya ran off, too," his expression fell. "I was beginning to wonder if you hadn't run away together."  
        A laugh so raucous escaped Tyrion without his consent. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to laugh." But he couldn't seem to stop. Gendry didn't seem to share in the joke. "Honestly, I don't. No, Lady Arya meant to chase me down and drag me back, not knowing that I meant to come back."  
        "Maybe if you'd mentioned you were leaving in the first place?" he muttered under his breath.  
        A little surprised by the sting in the younger man's voice, Tyrion asked "Did she not?  
        Gendry shook his head, suddenly noticing an interesting speck of dust on the floor to kick at. "She left a note," he said, trying not to sound as put out as he felt. "And Sansa knew where she'd gone. But, adventure and duty called," he nudged at the wall with his toe. _And she didn't bother to ask if I wanted to go,_ he thought.  
        "She'll be back," Tyrion assured, patting him on the elbow.  
        "I know that," Gendry nodded.  
        "Good lad."  
        The Smith muttered to himself as he returned to his chambers. "Right. Fat lot of fuckin' help you are..." Tyrion found himself laughing the entire way back to Sansa.

        While Tyrion was gone, Sansa received a visitor of her own. "Do I get to congratulate you now?" Jon asked hesitantly, knocking as he entered.  
        She stood from where she'd been writing at her vanity and wrapped him in a tight hug, answering with a big "Thank you."  
        "I'm so happy for you, Sansa."  
        Sansa directed him to sit beside her on the windowsill. "Are you?" she asked, not entirely sure. The last time they'd spoken about Tyrion, he didn't seem entirely sold.  
        He sat beside her and put his arm around his little sister's shoulders. "I am," he assured. "It's what you've always wanted. Why wouldn't I be happy for you?"  
        That was certainly true, and she smiled despite herself. "But are you happy all the way in Queen's Landing? The North is your home," she said, still not entirely thrilled with him being so far away. Jon nodded, waiting for the other shoe. "But not without Your Queen, right?" her tone wasn't nearly as acrid as it had been when she'd first surmised his feelings for Daenerys. Actually, it was almost warm and teasing.  
        "Queen's Landing's not so bad," he answered, rocking back and forth into her gently.  
        Sansa scoffed. "Wait until Summer comes back around. You'll see." She had only been there for the tail end of last summer and the heat was stifling. Jon was, perhaps, the only person she knew who was more Northern than she. "I recall it being hot enough that people walked the gardens absolutely naked. Your delicate nature won't withstand it, _Snow_."  
        A mock indignance crossed his tired features. "I think you mean Targaryen, don't you..." he grabbed at her left hand and waved it in front of her face, " _Lady Lanniste_ r?"  
        They both broke into a fit of laughter and she swatted him away. "Look at us. What would father say?"  
        "Some days, I wish I knew. Others..." he let out a gust of air, "I'm extremely glad to never have to find out."  
        "That's the truth."  
        Jon puffed himself up playfully. "Can you imagine?" He cleared his throat and forced his brows into a stern downturn. Mimicking Ned's thick Northern accent, he started, "' _Fuck's sake, Jon,_ I fought to get her father off that throne. Now you bring her back and go and fall in love with her.' I try not to think about what he'd have to say about the rest of it."  
        "That's probably for the best," she said, a wry smile playing at her lips.  
        Feigning offense, he got down to business, "Then, there's you- 'I don't care that you've been married for nine years. I don't care if you've been married for _ninety-nine years._ He's a _Lannister_ , Sansa. A lion's pride isn't worth all that.'" Sansa laughed harder than she'd laughed in a long time, clutching on to Jon's arm. He tried to keep going with his impression but, soon found himself engulfed in laughter, too. When they finally settled, he spoke again. "You know what the worst part of that is? I think he would have liked them both and he would have been happy that we're happy."  
        "And he'd be over the moon for Arya," Sansa nodded.  
        "Without question," Jon said. "I think he'd have had all of us marry Gendry. Or traded me with Robert for him."  
        She wrinkled her nose, knowing how fond Ned really was of Jon. "I wouldn't go that far."  
        He cocked his head to the side. "No, but _Lady_ Stark would have traded me for him in a heartbeat." And suddenly, the lightness was gone, and Jon was back to the same sad expression she'd come to know.  
        "That's probably true," she admitted, clasping his hand between hers, leaning forward a little so he had no choice but to look her in the eyes. "But that's also not either of your faults. You do see that, don't you? For all his honor, the fault there lies on Father." Jon seemed unswayed and she didn't know what to say to persuade him, so she decided to move the subject a little. "In fairness, from what I gather, she was rather opposed to Tyrion's continued existence in this life even before my marriage to him. Do you think he'd have grown on her?"  
        "Probably not," Jon scoffed. "At least, she'd likely never have shown it."  
        "No, definitely not."  
        The pair sat together and talked for a while longer until Jon had to make his way back to Queen's Landing. She gave him a letter addressed to Daenerys and made him swear not to open it, which he pocketed, eyeing her suspiciously before hugging her tightly and departing.  
  
        A few days later, Tyrion and Sansa were taking their breakfast in the kitchen when the chair he sat in began to tip back, without his doing. "Ah! What fresh-" Slam! The chair went back to its upright position and a thump landed to the back of Tyrion's head. " _Fuck!_ " he hissed, grabbing the sore spot with one hand and the table with the other. A Valyrian steel dagger that once been thought to belong to Tyrion stabbed squarely between the fingers of his outstretched palm. "Seven hells!" he yelled, grabbing the blade before it could find its way towards his flesh.  
        "Arya, was that entirely-" Sansa began, not even bothering to look up from her porridge.  
        "Yes," her husband and sister answered in unison, her tone aggressive, his resigned.  
        Tyrion sighed. He'd been expecting it for some time. He turned to his would-be attacker and handed the weapon back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to alarm."  
        Joining her sister and brother-in-law at the table, she grabbed a pear from the basket in the center of the table and began slicing pieces off, propping her feet up on the table. "You're lucky I didn't make it all the way to King's Landing. I saw the dragon."  
        Rolling his eyes at the overreaction, he groaned, "May I ask _once again_ what exactly I've done to make people think that I would run and hide from my pregnant wife?"  
        "She said you were gone. I took that to mean gone," she shrugged, popping a slice of fruit into her mouth right off of the blade.  
        Making a mental note to never introduce Arya to Bronn, for fear of what sort of reaction that might cause in the balance of the universe, Tyrion changed his tactic. He turned, instead, to Sansa. "Okay. May I ask what I've done to make _you_ think that I would abandon you?"  
        "You haven't."  
        Tyrion leaned over to Sansa and wrapped his arm around hers. "Do we think that, perhaps, some of this panic might be ill-placed?" he asked, voice dripping with sarcastic sweetness.  
        "No," the Stark women answered in unison, eyeing each other surreptitiously before rounding on Tyrion playfully. Sansa alternated her swats with kisses and tickles while Arya may have been more serious in her intent than she let on, coming dangerously close to ensuring that his first child may well be his last with a kick.  
        "Fine," he laughed, throwing his hands in the air and waving his napkin like a flag. "I surrender, then. There are worse ways to die than beaten to death by two beautiful women." Arya rolled her eyes. Sansa landed a final swat to his thigh with her napkin. When they'd finished, he added, genuinely, "I am sorry to have been the source of any undue stress."  
         Arya nudged his leg with her foot. "I'm glad you're back," she said, pausing for the slightest of moments before adding, "Prick."  
        "Glad to be home, My Lady," he said, smoothly sliding his hand under Sansa's and bringing it up to be kissed.

        The months went by and soon enough, Maester Ayn had all but forbidden Sansa from leaving her bedchamber. Her belly extended for, from her perspective, miles, and miles. "If your child doesn't see fit to grace us with their presence, I'm going to lose my mind," she groaned one afternoon, growing more and more impatient. She wriggled back into the pillows, long since unable to find a comfortable position.  
        Tyrion lay propped in the opposite direction rubbing his wife's feet and ankles. "They'll be here before you know it," he said, trying desperately to come across as calm and steady as he could.  
        "No," she whined, covering her face in her hands. "No, they're going to stay inside of me forever."  
        He let out a puff of air that a less intelligent man would have let grow into a laugh. But it would have taken a less intelligent wife to have missed it. His wife was no such woman and she gave him a nudge to the hip with her foot to remind him of such. Tyrion yelped playfully, before finally laughing. "I didn't say anything."  
       "It's your fault you know," she said, sounding a little more sharply grumpy than she'd intended to. "This child is so much yours that they're very much attached to me. I hope you're happy," she said, watching him crawl toward her.  
        The father-to-be stopped midway and lay on his stomach, facing hers, with his feet toward the side of the bed. "Happier than you can imagine," he grasped her hand and kissed it. "I've grown rather attached, myself."  
        Sansa rolled her eyes and rubbed the small of her back with her free hand, wincing. "The maester said any day. That was over a week ago."  
        "Do you hear that, you?" he said, leaning in very near to her belly and rubbing gently at a spot that was very clearly a tiny foot wiggling just below Sansa's ribs. "We're ready to meet you whenever you like, sweetling. Your mother and I want very much to hold you and your mother, while very beautiful, is very tired." Sansa grimaced again, still holding her back gingerly. Tyrion propped himself up on his elbows, heart racing a little. "Sansa? Are you alright?"  
        She nodded, taking a deep breath. "I think so. How about a walk?" she suggested. "Perhaps my back is just sore from inactivity."  
        Calming a bit, Tyrion nodded, sliding alongside her as she worked to upright herself. "I think we can do that," he said, hopping down from the bed and placing her hand on his shoulder for support. "Here, hold on to me," he said gently. She stood and slid her hand under her tummy to help support the added weight. "Ready?" he asked.  
        "Ready."  
        The couple took their time, walking very slowly through the hallway, joking back and forth about just who got them into this situation, blame which Tyrion was very glad to shoulder. When they reached the end of the hall again, they stopped at the window. "Feeling better?" he asked.  
        She nodded unconvincingly. "Look," she motioned out the window.  
        Tyrion took a step back and looked at the whole scene in front of him. "It's beautiful," he agreed. On some level, he may have meant the weather outside the window, pale sky dropping a fresh blanket of snow in the courtyard, but moreso, he referred to Sansa, positively beaming, cradling her rounded middle. She may have been uncomfortable and nervous and exhausted, but she was truly more peaceful and happy than Tyrion would ever have expected the terrified girl he married all those years ago to be.  
        "I do love the snow," she admitted, resting one hand flat on the window sill. "I'm glad they're going to be a Winter babe." She was silent for a moment, then dug her fingernails into the wood, bouncing a little.  
        "Sansa?" he moved nearer to her, reaching out and taking over rubbing the small of her back.  
         "I'm fine, Tyrion," she said again, trying to ignore how the pain was growing more sharp, silently asking the babe she carried to hurry up and arrive.  
         Her husband eyed her tentatively. "Sansa..." he walked around to stand beside her with his back to the wall and asked, staring at the floor and putting the pieces together. "How long has your back been sore?" he asked.  
        "Since we reached a point where your child was obstructing my view of my feet," she groaned, turning to face him, brushing his lately unkempt hair from his eyes. Soon enough, he'd be able to pull it back into a knot.  
        He looked up at her and took her hand, rubbing his thumb across hers. "I'm being serious," he urged.  
        She shrugged her shoulders. "Sporadically since..." she thought for a moment before deciding, "I don't know, just before we went to sleep last night?"  
        _Last night,_ he thought, panic beginning to thrum in his chest. He guided her to a window with a seat a little way up the hallway. "Here, sit. Sporadically?"  
        Growing exasperated with his questions, Sansa rubbed at the bottom of her stomach. "I don't know, Tyrion. What is your point? It's a muscle spasm. I've had a wintermelon hanging from my front for years," she gestured to herself demonstratively, "thanks in large part to you, and my back is none-too-happy about it. _I'm fine_ ," she insisted squeezing his hand a little tighter as she spoke.  
        "About how long did that _muscle spasm_ last? A minute or so?"  
        "I suppose," she said.  
        "Would you say they happen every 10 minutes?" She cocked her head to the side. "5?" She shrugged. "Less?"  
        She stood up, finding the bench far too restrictive and started to pace. "Probably. Why?"  
        Tyrion propped his chin in his hand, resting his elbow on the armrest, trying to keep as visually calm as he could. Still, his gaze followed her every move, assessing her. "And I can grasp that they've been getting worse."  
        _"Gods! And?"_  
        He leaned forward, choosing his words carefully. "Sansa, I don't know, but I think you've been having labor pains."  
        "No," she admonished. "No, I would know. Wouldn't I?"  
        "From my extremely limited knowledge on the matter," he said, trying to keep the time between each grimace and gauge her pain past her stoicism, "no. Not always. Every woman is said to experience every babe differently," he stood and moved toward her, rambling and wringing his now trembling hands nervously, "it's not as though either of us has much practical knowledge on the subject but you've..."  
        Tyrion continued to talk but Sansa could scarcely hear him over her own heartbeat as a band of pain drew tightly around her abdomen, "I think you might be on to something," she gulped, catching her breath and steadying her grip on her husband's shoulders.  
        "You do?" he asked, breath caught somewhere in his chest. When she didn't answer, he found himself asking again "Sansa, are you alright?"  
        "Mhm. I..." Her thought was cut off by a rush of wetness down her right leg. Her jaw dropped, finally accepting that she was, indeed, in labor. "You're definitely right," she admitted.  
        His mind raced and he found himself at a loss for words, settling deftly on a breathless "I love you," as a proxy for everything else he wanted to say. I love you in place of _I'm here_. I love you in place of _we've got this_. I love you in place of _we're going to have a baby_. Most importantly, I love you in place of _I'm not afraid...maybe_.  
        "I love you," she answered. I love you _for being here_. I love you _for loving me_. I love you _for being you_. I love you _for this child_. I love you _and I'm not going anywhere_.  
        Snapping out of the momentary calm, Tyrion noticed a chambermaid moving into a room at the end of the hall. "You there!" he called, catching the girl's attention with a sudden bark, "Fetch Maester Ayn, would you?"  
        A startled Sansa stared at him, shocked by his sudden command. "Was that entirely called for?" she asked, taking his hand as they headed back for their room.  
        He shrugged, stating plainly, "I told you I'm not leaving your side for this."  
        Within minutes, a swarm of septas and midwives were busying themselves with Sansa, all but pushing Tyrion aside. Still, he didn't move out of her reach for a moment. "This would be where we ask you to exit, My Lord," one of the insufferable women  
        "No!" Sansa yelped, eyes darting open to plead for him to stay, grabbing his hand tightly.  
        Without flinching, he turned to them and asked very calmly, but his voice teeming with threats, "Which one of you proposes to make me?" The shocked helpers stammered but busied themselves on other preparations. Tyrion turned back to Sansa and raised his eyebrows, as though to say _See? Try me,_ before kissing her hand gently.  
        The afternoon passed to night. Tyrion never left her side. He distracted her through each pain. He rubbed her back. He held her hand. They whispered to one another quietly. One of the midwives remarked to one of the septas that she'd never seen anything like it; Lady Sansa seemed to be handling her pain better than any mother she'd ever seen, bless her, after everything she'd been through, and that she'd never seen a man more devoted than Lord Tyrion, that this baby was going to be the luckiest in the land. By the end, Sansa was exhausted and in worse pain than she could have ever imagined. Sweat coated her brow. "You're doing beautifully, My Lady," Maester Ayn said, patting her leg gently. "It shouldn't be long now."  
        "You've said that for _hours_ ," she said, as another wave of pain crashed over her.  
        "I mean it this time," he assured.  
         She panted, squeezing Tyrion's hand hard. "You've said _that_ for hours." And as quickly as that band started, it stopped, leaving her breathless. Enjoying the, now largely infrequent, calm, Sansa turned to her husband. "You're quiet," she observed.  
        "You're amazing," he responded.  
        She shook her head, loosening her grip on his hand in an attempt to grant him some reprieve. "You're lying." The next pain came with a definite urge to push and Sansa groaned through her teeth. When the pain subsided, a thought occurred to her. "I haven't had to calm your nerves once."  
        Tyrion simply smiled at her and said, "There are no nerves to calm." When she didn't seem to have a response, his familiar need to fill the silence kicked in. He sat on the side of the bed and pushed a fallen strand of hair aside before kissing her forehead. "Sansa, you labored nearly a day without so much as a peep before even realizing. I harbor no pretense that you are anything but capable." She interlaced their fingers once more, steeling herself against the pressure she knew would return.  
        "You'll need to push as hard as you possibly can this time, milady," one of the Septas encouraged. Sansa slid down in the bed and did as she was told, closing her eyes and wailed.  
        When she opened them again, all she saw was Tyrion, gazing at her with admiration. "I couldn't do this without you," she said.  
        "Yes," he laughed, leaning his forehead against hers, "you've reminded me several times that this is entirely my fault."  
        Tears welled in her eyes and she struggled against her racing heart, putting her hands on his shoulders. "No, I mean it, Tyrion. You've been amazing and I can't imagine anyone else by my side for this." She kissed him with fervent ardor, as though trying to steal strength from his lips. "I love you," she said softly.  
        "I love you."  
        Sansa's cries rang out through the room again as she pressed hard against her husband. "There you are, Little One," Maester Ayn said, readying himself to present the child.  
        "Are you ready, Sansa?" the youngest midwife asked gently.  
        She sobbed, suddenly overwhelmed. "No. No, I'm not."  
        Tyrion moved closer to her and rubbed the side of her cheek. "Yes, you are, Sansa. You have this completely under control. They're almost here and you'll get to hold them and I'll get to hold you both." He laughed, his own tears flowing freely. "You are the embodiment of strength and you have been since the day I first saw you. I love you, Sansa and I don't know why it took me so long to finally tell you and I will spend the rest of my days making up for lost time." Her breathing steadied as she readied herself for the end of all the pain. She fumbled as she grabbed for his hands, landing instead on his forearms, allowing for him to stroke hers calmingly. "Our first child, Sansa," he said, guiding her through. She trembled with effort. "Good Sansa, good. Keep going."  
        Just when Sansa thought she might faint, in one final push, a cry pierced the room. "Welcome to the world, little Lady," the Maester said, placing her at Sansa's chest before clipping the umbilical cord and taking the babe to be cleaned off and checked over by the Septas.  
        Sansa sobbed and nodded, telling him it was okay to follow; that she was fine and to watch over their daughter. He slid from the bed and went dutifully, to where the Septas were cleaning the newborn off. "She's beautiful. She's beautiful and she's here," he said tearfully, reporting back to the new mother's side. He kissed her hand and then her cheek. "She's perfect. You did it, Sansa."  
        "Tyrion..." Sansa said weakly, voice truly frightened for the first time throughout the whole endeavor.  
        The emotion in her voice startled him. "Yes, my love?" She shook her head and squeezed his hand again, trembling. He furrowed his brow as he searched her face for answers. "Sansa?" She nodded to the space between her legs and cried out in agony again. "Maester Ayn?" Tyrion called as the realization of what she had been trying to tell him dawned. "Maester Ayn!"

        Sansa and Tyrion stood over the cradle, his head resting on her hip and her leaning lightly on him for support, "The snow falls all round a Winter town, with his ladies he'll stay evermore," she sang gently, adapting the song the people sang of their love for their newfound life. "We once were a duo but now we've got you so you've made us a fam'ly of four," she said, reaching in and tickling her sleeping twin daughters cheeks lightly. "Now, sing me no stories, I'll tell you no lies, but the man he stays by their side. Now, sing me no stories, I'll tell you no lies, but the man he stays by their side."  
        Tyrion kissed her forearm lightly and rocked the cradle gently as they couldn't seem to break their stare from their two perfect little girls.

        The next morning, when the Septas deemed it acceptable for the family to receive visitors, Arya, Gendry, Brienne, and little Jaime had been standing in the doorway for quite some time. Tyrion, asleep on his stomach, snored lightly, arm territorily draped over Sansa's leg. Sansa lay back against the pillows, humming sweetly to her daughters.  
        "Sansa really got her song, then," Arya said resting back against Gendry, who had his arms draped around her neck.  
        "Nah," he said as he pressed his lips gently to his betrothed's head, "they don't write songs about this."  
        Brienne hugged her own little one tightly. "There aren't words pretty enough for it."  
        Finally deciding to make their presence known, Arya pulled her way into the room, "Sansa?" she said quietly, aiming not to disturb the peaceful scene before them.  
        "Congratulations," Gendry said following in behind her.  
        Sansa gave a contented smile. "Thank you."  
        "Look, Jaime," Brienne said, sitting in the chair beside the bed. "Say hello to your cousins. Your daddy was a twin, too, you know."  
        "The hungry little lady is Margaery," Sansa introduced, gesturing to the blonde baby at her breast. "And this little sweetling is Myrcella," she said, watching her little redhead's green eyes dart between the newcomers. "I can't tear my eyes off of them," she admitted.  
        "They're beautiful, Sansa," Gendry said, watching as Arya went to sit on the edge of the bed next to her sister and staring at their nieces in wonder.  
       "They are, aren't they?" she said, gently stroking the babe's cheek before looking at Sansa for permission. "Can I?" Sansa nodded, watching as Arya swept her little girl into her own strong arms and rocked her. She went immediately to Gendry's side. "Hello, Myrcella. I'm so happy to meet you. I'm your Aunt Arya. Your mother is my sister. And this is your Uncle Gendry..." she said, conversation trailing off until it was no longer audible to anyone but the two of them.  
        Brienne laughed a little, noting Arya's behavior with Myrcella much the same as Sansa's had been with Jaime. "Careful, now. They'll walk right off with her," she teased.  
        The new mother shook her head with a quiet laugh. "No, but the inspiration will do them good, I think."  
        "He'll certainly hold tight to the image for a while," Tyrion said sleepily, making his consciousness known for the first time. "Until she gives him one of their own, that is," he added, leaning up to kiss the top of Margaery's head.  
        "Did we wake you?" Sansa asked, adjusting her hold on the now sleeping baby to draw her hand through her husband's hair.  
        "This is much better than any dream."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHH.   
> GUYS.   
> Okay, so, the next chapter is the epilogue, a 'Nineteen Years Later' of sorts. I just want to thank you guys from the bottom of my heart. This is my first fic in probably 3 years, maybe 4? The response to this has been kind of overwhelming and I'm so grateful for all of your comments and support and the people that have shared it on tumblr? You're amazing. All of you.
> 
> As of right now, 5 AM EST 6/15/19, I am working on what was _supposed to be_ a one-shot Soulmate Identifying Mark AU because I noticed we're sorely lacking them over here in Sanrionville. Here's the problem. My one-shot is now looking like it's going to be like... 45-50k words? Give or take? 
> 
> So, now, here's my question: Would you guys read a ~45k word one-shot or would you prefer it be in easier to swallow chapters? For me, as a reader, I tend to devour, so I'd probably be okay with it in theory, but from a visual processing standpoint, it would be daunting. What I'm thinking is probably breaking it into chapters either way, but I guess what I'm asking is, do you guys like one chapter every couple of days or just big old load of chapters?


	18. 5 Years Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take some time at the top to thank each and every one of you who've commented and given kudos. The response to this has been overwhelming. I didn't expect anyone to even read this, let alone enjoy it, so thank you for giving me the opportunity to share these two cuties being in love with you all!

> Oh darling don't you ever grow up, don't you ever grow up  
>  It could stay this simple  
>  And no one's ever burned you  
>  Nothing's ever left you scarred  
>  And even though you want to  
>  Just try to never grow up  
>  \- Never Grow Up, Taylor Swift

        Winter Is Coming. Those were the Stark words. They were true enough, but when a whole life is spent prepping for Winter, it's hard to be prepared for what Summer brings. By five years later, a year into summer, it seemed it was only to bring life anew. For Sansa and Tyrion, the Winter brought with it another little girl, Joanna, the spitting image of her mother in every way, much as her mother was to her mother before her. As summer blew in, it brought them yet another, Cat, who was shaping up to be every bit her father's daughter.  
        They sat for lunch on a hill just outside of Winterfell and talked happily. A large Rowan tree shaded them from the sun's harshness. Bran sat by Brienne's side, talking quietly with Margaery, answering her every question in the same even tone. She was fascinated by her uncle's funny answers. At least someone is, Arya had said once, earning her a most perturbed look from the little girl that had nearly knocked Tyrion off his feet for how unbelievably Sansa the look was. "Jaime, leave Uncle Gendry alone," she called from the table they'd set up on the hill to soak up the Summer sun.  
        "Awww. But he's my prince!" Jaime groaned. At six, she towered over her cousins, though whether that was age or her parents was yet unseen. Still, she was very much a talkative and playful child.  
        And her cousin Myrcella copied her every move. "No, Jaime, he's my prince!" she said, draping her arms around his neck.  
        "Cella, I was here first!" the older girl whined, thumping her hip against the redhead and nearly knocking her over.  
        From his spot in the grass, Gendry laughed, snaking his arm around his wife's leg. "Might I suggest that Aunt Arya was here first."  
        Arya, heavily pregnant herself with their first, rested on a bench facing away from the table and ruffled Jaime's hair gently. "Besides, he's no prince, sweetling," she chided.  
        The Smith looked up as though to protest, but thought better of it. Myrcella was offended, but clarified, "No, but he'll do until Uncle Jon gets here tomorrow. And he's a king! Which makes my cousin Rhaegar a prince!" Watching her oldest daughter talk of princes and kings with such abandon twisted Sansa's insides a little. Even though she was only just five and knew nothing of the world of the generation before her, it took some serious training to not sweep her up in her arms and dissuade the idea entirely. It helped, some, to remind herself that the King was just Jon and that Prince Rhaegar was the son of Jon and Queen Daenerys. Myrcella climbed into Gendry's lap, chatting happily.  
        Brienne gave a stern finger wag to her daughter who simply curled her lip in response. Her mischevious green eyes betrayed her every intention much as her father and uncles did as well, as she did the same. "That attitude, Miss," she warned.  
        "I don't mind. Honest," he mouthed, hugging both girls tightly.  
        "He's got no room to complain, anyway," Arya groaned.  
        Watching their play fondly, she imagined that this generation of children would grow even wilder than the one before. Truthfully, the thought pleased her much. Direwolves aren't meant to be caged. Sansa sat to the other side of her sister and patted her hand, pulling Joanna up into her lap. "He's gotta get used to it sometime," she shrugged, bouncing the toddler gently.  
        As he knelt on the ground hands outstretched to guide his youngest daughter to walk, Tyrion chuckled. "Yes, your _poor_ uncles and I have such a terrible lot in life to be utterly surrounded by beautiful women," he said to the girl, who chattered back knowingly.  My beautiful girls.    
        "You'd better be a boy," Gendry said, leaning up to kiss Arya's rounded belly.  
        "Hear, hear," Brienne called. From beside her, Bran locked eyes with Sansa before his gaze shifted lower. A chill shot through her and she cursed his all-knowingness. The thought had only occurred to her that morning...  
        Arya laughed, knocking her knee against her husband. "Oh, shove it." She nodded for him to go elsewhere.  
        "As milady commands," he said with a laugh, kissing her knee, before crawling away and gesturing for the girls to follow. "Come here, Princesses, I've an idea. D'you know how Aunt Daenerys has dragons..."  
        The baby let out a sudden wail that Tyrion knew well by this point to mean that she was hungry. "Aww, what's that now, little Cat?" He swept the little one off her feet, turning her once before presenting her to her mother. "If I'm not mistaken, this one is all yours. Why don't you come with me, Joanna? Let your mother feed Catelyn." He led the girl away toward Gendry, Jaime, and Myrcella, listening with rapt attention to the story she'd begun to tell him about a ladybug she'd seen. "Now, how do you know that it was a Lady Bug and not a Lord Bug?" he asked seriously.  
        Watching their banter, Sansa decided she would never tire of the way he spoke to their children. Nothing in their minds would ever be off limits. They would learn anything and everything they could ever want to know. She redirected her attention to Joanna in her lap. "Oh, you are hungry, aren't you?" Sansa said, situating the girl at her breast and stroking her blond curls absently. "There we are, my Jo." Certainly, she could have hired a wetnurse, but moments like these had been a part of the dream for so long. She couldn't imagine having anyone else do so.  
        Finally alone and watching her sister with her littlest, Arya finally found the courage to seize the opportunity she'd put off for months. Still, she didn't know where to start.          "Does it hurt?" she asked, annoyed at how green she sounded.  
        "What, this? I hardly even notice any..." Sansa started, and Arya shook her head. Before. _Everything_ before. " _Oh_. A fair bit," Sansa laughed a little.  
        Arya stared at her hands, feeling quite stupid. "I don't want..." she looked at her sister, searching for the words, then to Gendry, who lay in the grass with Jame in the air atop his feet pretending to be a dragon as her cousins and Tyrion laughed at her pitiful growls. _What don't you want, Arya? Speak,_ she admonished herself. _To look weak? For it to hurt? To scare him? To scare yourself?_ Her silence was suffocating.  
        In truth, Sansa wasn't sure what she could possibly say to ease her fears. "Arya, when did you become the modest one?" She'd hoped that, maybe, playing to her strengths would draw her out and a bit of needling had always worked before.  
        "I just don't know what to expect," Arya admitted.  
        Absorbing her words, she found herself at a loss. Sometimes, she was surprised by the things growing up so quickly had stolen from Arya. It was true enough that she'd never been interested, really, but Arya was merely a girl of ten when they reached King's Landing. "No one's ever told you?" she asked, suddenly ashamed of herself for failing her sister in the one way she would, likely, have been the most help. She remembered how her own earliest discussions on the topic had gone, talk of blood and screams and pain but none of the joy in the moments of calm, or how very bizarre the whole experience is, or how the only thing that is, indeed, more intense than the pain is the love that you feel.  
        Adjusting for the bout of acrobatics in her belly, Arya's eyes fluttered shut. "No. Not until very recently. I've heard stories, but not from anyone I trust. The Septas use their scare tactics. The Maesters are too clinical. I just want someone to be honest with me."  
        Sansa's features softened and she reached for her sister's hand. "Oh, Arya, I'm sorry. I really am." She was trying to keep a stiff upper lip, but Sansa could tell. Arya was terrified. _How long had she been keeping this a secret?_ "You should have asked before now. I would have talked with you about it. Gods know I've had enough experience by now," she laughed. _And if she had her signs right..._ She rubbed at Catelyn's shoulder.  
        "I've been too frightened," Arya shrugged, wincing at a sharp kick. "Every time he moves, I feel like I could faint."  
        Sansa arched her eyebrow in question. "He?" Arya gave her a pointed look before mimicking the exchange Sansa had just had with the Three-Eyed Raven. "Bran. Nevermind."  
        "Our husbands need to get better at reading him." The women sat, watching their family fondly. "It seems like Margaery gets him, though."  
        That much was certainly true. The little girl was absolutely enraptured with her uncle Bran. If he was nearby, it was a sure thing that she'd be soon to follow. "It's a little startling to hear my five year old imitating The Three-Eyed Raven," she laughed, remembering the first time the girl had donned Bran's vacant but severe expression and said some nonsense about the past and the present happening all at once. She was too young to have the semantics of what her uncle said, but she could certainly parrot him. "I like that Tyrion's oblivious." It wasn't that he didn't possess the capacity, she thought, but more that he was easily frustrated by mystics.  
        Arya turned to face her sister. "Thank the Gods we settled on Robb easy enough." Truthfully, she was grateful to know that she'd be having a boy. At least, she had an idea of what to expect where that was concerned. Still, that was only one small item on her ever-growing list of anxieties.  
        "Arya, look, I'm not going to tell you that it doesn't hurt. I'm not going to tell you that you're not going to be afraid in the moment," she grasped her sister's hand. "I'm not going to tell you that it's going to be beautiful. All I can tell you is that it's worth it. The minute you have Robb in your arms, you'll know." She stared at the babe in her arms and smiled fondly. "And then the fear comes back ten times over because then it's beyond your control. But you get on with it. You move forward and you're all the better for it. You remember that the world isn't the same as it was. You know that you've survived and you know that he has and you tell yourself that your child is a combination of the two of you and has the two of you and together, you'll work it all out." Arya didn't seem to be moved by her sister's words, so she tried a different tactic. "I know that you and I have vastly different desires from our lives so my perspective isn't necessarily a comfort, but look at Brienne. Your view on life is much closer to hers and she's said things to me very similar to what I'm saying to you now. I know it all seems so big, Arya, but big has never scared you. You've wandered continents. This'll be nothing."  
Covering her eyes, she made to protest. "I've wandered continents alone. I've wandered them with Gendry," she explained, then looked down to her own body, still feeling so foreign in sharing it with someone else. "Now, there's more at stake."  
        Sansa moved closer to Arya and leaned in confidentially. "When have you ever avoided high stakes?" The women continued their conversation.  
In the grass, Gendry propped himself on his elbows, watching his nieces dancing happily amongst themselves. "Which one of our wives found the genie in a bottle? A home fit for a queen..."  
        "Oh, let's not," Tyrion groaned from beside him. "I'd rather not spend the night sleeping on the floor." He looked back at the Arya and Sansa, wondering what they could be so deep in conversation about. "Do you think they have any idea that we know?"  
        Gendry scoffed. "She can't actually think I like half of the ridiculous girl's names I suggested, can she?"  
        The girls came barreling toward them, Joanna knocking her father down flat with a hug. "How about that, you three? Do you think you're going to have a little boy cousin or a little girl?" The girls gave their responses readily. In the fields outside their home, Tyrion smile shone brighter the warm Summer sun. He remembered how, one grey Winter's day, he'd rode into Winterfell on horseback, sure he'd be leaving within a day, alone, never to return. Now, he couldn't imagine being anywhere else. _How the times had changed..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! I know this last chapter is just a big ball of fluff, but I needed a stupidly happy ending, okay????
> 
>  
> 
> And, in case you were wondering, the first part of the Soulmate!Au is posted. EEK. If you like your soulmates with a heaping helping unresolved sexual tension, maddening self-deprecation, pitiful mutual pining, and a torturously slow burn because they're _idiots_ , then uh... go check out "it was only a word it was almost misheard (i wasn't expecting that)"


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